


amor de mi vida

by trilliananders



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s!au, F/M, Latinx, PoC, Prejudice, Racism, latina, latinx!reader, poc!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a sweet young Brooklyn boy just on the cusp of manhood, a hopeless romantic that falls in love with almost every girl he sees. when he sets his eyes on a young girl fresh off the boat from Cuba he finds out how hard love can really be.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 62





	1. 1939

Bucky loved Brooklyn, he loved everything about the borough. The Dodgers, the noise, the diner down the street from his house that made the best cherry pie he’d ever had, he even loved the way it smelled. The salty breeze from the that rolled in every morning and evening, the Statue of Liberty lighting up the bay. He was a Brooklyn boy through and through, even if his birth certificate said he was born in Shelbyville, Indiana. His parents moved here before he could even remember, Brooklyn was all he knew. 

He was on the cusp of manhood. The final years of his schooling before he was ready to take on whatever life threw his way. He didn’t have any expectations. To him it was so simple. Take up more hours in his Dad’s shop, find a beautiful dame, get married, pop out a few kids, have everything his parents ever had and everything they ever wanted for him. He felt so young, full of hope and ready. Ready for anything.

Munching on crackerjack he sat, feet swinging on the edge of pier five, his best friend sketching idly next to him. He tried to ignore the younger boy’s rattling breaths. He was fine, those breaths were normal for him, that’s all that mattered. Steve had recently had a pretty bad scare, when his Ma came down with TB and passed there had been a big concern that the sickly boy had caught it from her. There was quarantine and Bucky thought he was going to lose the best friend he’d ever had. 

Thankfully that wasn’t the case. 

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, the kind that comes with years of companionship. Just the company soothing them from their day. A test in math, the girl that just broke Bucky’s heart, another girl that wouldn’t pay Steve any mind. Bucky’s eyes drifted to his friend’s sketchpad, the Manhattan skyline taking shape slowly but steadily. 

It was warm, the beginning of summer. The switch from wearing sweater vests to short sleeve button downs, wool socks traded in for more breathable cotton. Bucky leaned back on his hands, feet swaying slightly over the edge of the dock watching the ship moving slowly in the water towards Ellis Island. 

“I wonder what it must be like,” Bucky said, “To leave your entire life behind and go somewhere completely new.” Steve’s pencil stopped on the page, looking over at his friend. 

“Must be scary,” Steve started, “Not knowing anyone I mean.” Bucky hummed in agreement. 

“Ma said she’s gonna make meatloaf tonight,” Bucky stood from the dock, helping his friend to his feet, “You’re comin’ to dinner right?” Steve nodded, stuffing his sketchbook into his bag. “Good, cause you really didn’t have a choice there pal.” Bucky’s arm swung over Steve’s shoulder, dragging the smaller boy behind him as they hopped into the junker that was Bucky’s pride and joy. 

The 11 year old Ruxton he’d found rusting away in a scrap yard last year, totaled in an accident and discarded. He’d only recently gotten it back up and running, but it was still a terrifying ride. He dared not take it farther than a few city blocks, but it was still nice to drive. They pretended like they were rich folk above it all, driving the recently painted sleek black car down the streets, wind in their hair only because the windows wouldn’t roll up. 

The next day Bucky fell in love again, and he couldn’t even remember who broke his heart yesterday. Dorothy Seeley. A beautiful blonde dame, bright green eyes, legs for days. She was in his english class. He could see a future with her, something Bucky always wanted. He could imagine loving her forever, her pretty pink mouth pressed against his in his car because he had one, and that made him special. Better than the other boys. 

He was sweet on her, doting, for days. A trip to Coney Island that left him broke, the drive-in, burgers and fries at the diner by his house. Steve in tow. Always. 

He was leant up against the side of his car, Dot pressed against his chest as they exchanged a soft kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked. She grinned, lips parting like petals around shiny white teeth. 

“You’re keen on me Barnes.” Holding his hand and stepping back, her skirt twirled around her legs. 

“Is that a bad thing?” He grinned, his own pearly whites showing. He could feel Steve rolling his eyes from inside the car. 

“Tomorrow then,” He pulled Dot in close to land one more cheeky kiss before she was skipping up the steps into her family’s brownstone, and out of sight. Bucky’s grinning face turned around to look at his friend, slipping into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m gonna marry that girl.” He said.

Steve rolled his eyes, “You say that about every girl.” 

“I mean it this time,” Bucky assured him, pulling the car away from the curb. 

Steve laughed, “You say that too.” 

Bucky’s family wasn’t rich, but they weren’t poor either. His Ma would always say, “We have just what we need.” And it was true. 

Bucky was the eldest of five, the only boy with four younger sisters, each spaced two years apart. The youngest being his favorite, but he’d never tell the other three. 

Rebecca Barnes was his partner in crime, the sweet girl looked most like him, at only nine years old she was a spitfire. Full of attitude and sass, almost always covered in dirt, and easily conned both him and his father into giving her penny candy on almost a daily basis. 

Susan Barnes was eleven and extremely smart, she’d often help her older siblings with their homework, studying. She almost always had a book in her hand and could recite Shakespeare off the top of her head. 

Ruth Barnes was thirteen and hated everyone and everything. It was just that age. She was experimenting with makeup, almost always on the telephone, and generally didn’t speak to anyone in the house unless she absolutely had to. Talking to her lately was just about as hard as pulling teeth. 

Lastly was Virgina Barnes, she was fifteen and much to her father and brother’s chagrin was a little boy crazy. Bucky was sure she was dating someone she wouldn’t bring around to the house, he’d often spy on her in the halls of their high school trying to catch a glimpse of who the punk was that had necked with his sister, but so far she’s been sneaky and kept out of sight. 

His parents were still very much in love. The two were always touching, kissing, slow dancing to music that wasn’t there. It was everything Bucky ever wanted. His mom, Winnie Barnes, came from money. Old money and his grandpa every rare time they saw him would be sure to make it known that he didn’t like their father. 

George Barnes had grown up pretty poor, very wrong side of the tracks. He’d fought in the War to End All Wars in the 107th, met Winnie Barnes when she was a nurse. Real classic story. One Bucky loved hearing. 

His Pops owned his own shop now, one of the only mechanics in Brooklyn which kept him pretty busy, but provided well for his family if their four bedroom brownstone was anything to say for it. Bucky parked the car outside the garage, men laughing, radio playing, he could see his Pops sitting in the back office, pencil behind his ear, looking over the books. 

“You gonna be good from here pal?” Bucky asked Steve. The smaller boy nodded, 

“Probably gonna walk around for a bit before going home.” Bucky wished Steve would take up his offer and come stay with them for a while, but the kid was too proud for that. He was currently living alone in a small apartment, selling funnies to the local paper. 

“If you need anything I’ll be here until seven probably, then I’ll be home.” Steve nodded, backing away.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” With a wave he was off, disappearing down the street. 

Bucky worked hard. As he was expected to. He was his father’s only son and George Barnes put a lot of pressure on his son to be a good example, not only for his sisters, but for the other guys that worked for him. He worked, and he worked hard. His hands had become calloused over the years, having worked in the shop since he was old enough to hold a wrench, he knew almost everything there was to know about fixing cars. 

His father believed that a good red blooded American man should know how to do three things. Auto work, Wood work, and wife’s work. He should be able to fix a car, fix the house, and keep his wife as happy as possible. It was ingrained into him since he could barely see over the hood, his father’s words ringing in his ears. 

“Keep your wife happy, the roof strong, and dinner on the table.” He said, “As long as you do those three things you’ll have a good life.” A life like his. Despite the hollowness of his eyes sometimes and the extra beers before bed. 

“It was the war”, his mother told him once, “Sometimes it just catches up to him.” Bucky wouldn’t understand that, not for a while. 

“Jaime.” His pops called him into the back office, a wrapped parcel on his desk. “Run this down to the post for me woulda? They sent us the wrong part, sendin’ it back for an exchange.” James nodded, 

“You need anythin’ else while I’m out?” His father’s eyes, blue like his, peeked up over the lenses of his readers, 

“Grab me a soda pop woulda?” A couple of cents placed into his hand and he was out the door, walking down the sunny streets to the post office three blocks away. There was a corner store next to it where he’d pop in and get his Dad a cola with enough change to grab himself one as well and he’d be on his way back. That was until his eyes landed on the girl peering into the store window in front of the said corner store, brows pulled tight in confusion. 

Her skin was beautifully caramel, dark hair and lips painted red. She was in a soft linen dress, buttoned front, low heels, roses stitched onto the sides. She was a sight. One that made his heart stop in his chest and his mouth drop open wide enough to collect flies. Her dark brown eyes and perfectly curled hair made his hands tremble. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform pants, looking at himself in a car’s side mirror and fixing his hair before approaching. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for doll?” The young woman jumped, turning to face him, perfectly plucked brows raised in alarm. “Sorry,” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He saw the girl take a step back, he was blowing it. “It’s just not everyday that you see such a beautiful dame such as yourself.” You worried your bottom lip. “Sorry,” He took a step back from you. “That was corny I just…”

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] You said, “No puedo hablar ingles.” [I can’t speak english] His face dropped slightly and he took a step back. He didn’t know what to do here, he looked at the window and back at you. 

“James.” He said, pointing to himself, then pointing a finger at you, 

“Y/N.” You replied, figuring out what he meant. He pointed to the store. 

“Store?” You looked at him confused. “Uhm…” He put his hands on his hips and looked inside, holding a hand out to you and pointed at the sign of the shop, “Store?” You looked at him skeptically, taking his hand and letting him bring you inside. He’d walked to the ice box in the back, pulling out two cola’s as he watched you pick up a loaf of bread, looking at him nervously. He tried to smile at you reassuringly but you didn’t seem to feel comfortable still. He took the change out of his pocket, counting out the coins. He had just enough for his two cola’s, not room for much else as he walked you to the counter. If he’d had enough he woulda bought the bread too. 

The shop keep seemed to glare at you, which confused Bucky. He looked between the guy at the counter and back to you behind him, placing his two colas on the counter, having the guy ring him up. “Have a good day,” the man told him, Bucky watched as the girl placed the bread loaf on the counter. The man glared at her, not moving. “No sale.” He said. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, you looked between the two nervously. “Here.” Bucky took the coins from her open palm, and tried to hand them to the shop keep. He glared back at Bucky. 

“We don’t take their money here.” He said sternly, pointing to the sign behind him. Bucky had been in this shop almost five times a week and never noticed that sign before. ‘WHITES ONLY’ in big bold lettering. Bucky looked back at you and while he figured you couldn’t understand english you at least could feel that you weren’t wanted here. Suddenly your nervousness made sense. 

“It’s my money then.” Bucky said, slapping the coins on the counter. “Let her buy the damn bread.” The shop keep stood from the stool he was resting on, leaning over the counter.

“Get out.” By the time Bucky realized he was talking to you and not him you’d quickly walked out of the store and back onto the street. He’d quickly grabbed the loaf of bread, coins still discarded on the counter and followed you out. 

“Wait! Y/N!” He called, catching up to you. “Here.” You looked at him, brows pulled skeptically together before taking the bread from his hands. “I’m sorry about that guy, he’s usually so nice I-” Bucky bit his lip, he was unsure what else to say. Nothing he said made any sense to you anyway. He couldn’t say anything regardless as you gave him a funny look and slowly walked away from him, turning your eyes away as you crossed the street. 

He stared after you longingly and confused. He’d heard people speak spanish in passing. Guys that worked in the factories near the docks. He wasn’t ignorant to that. He just never really gave much thought to them. They were in a different world than him, it didn’t matter as much. But you’d struck him. The way the shopkeep had treated you struck him. He’d never seen a pretty girl treated that way. Usually guys would bend over backwards for a girl like you, but to be fair, Bucky never had a reason to think about skin color. 

It’s not that he didn’t see it, he just never cared. He’d heard whispers of people being irritated at the growing hispanic population in Sunset Park, but never really gave it much thought. It never crossed his mind. He had other things to worry about at the time, a girl to love, a friend to protect. 

The sweating colas in his hands reminded him that he had somewhere to be, and you’d long since disappeared around a corner. Gone from his sight. He was quiet that night at dinner, suspiciously so.

He didn’t see you again for three months, the end of summer drawing near, the days just beginning to get shorter. He’d been walking around Sunset Park occasionally, looking for you, under the guise of a stroll. Steve thought it was strange, his newfound obsession. 

“I’m gonna marry her Stevie.” He’d said. He knows he’s said it before, 

“I mean it this time.” He said that before too. “But you didn’t see her Stevie.” He grinned as the pair walked around the neighborhood for the first time, “She was more beautiful than Aphrodite.” Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure how many times he’s walked this neighborhood looking for you, but he told himself he’d do it every night if it meant he’d find you again. 

School had ended, he was working full time at his Dad’s shop now, little time for extracurriculars, the dance halls missed him, his favorite waitress asked Steve about him all the time, and he hadn’t seen a movie since the last time he went with Dot almost 3 months ago. All of his energy had gone into working and on his days off with Steve, looking for you. He thumbed through the spanish phrasebook he’d spent a pretty penny on, pages dogeared with things he might try to say to you when he saw you next. 

If it ever happened. 

He was beginning to lose hope, truth be told. Maybe you’d moved away. Maybe you were in the neighborhood visiting someone and didn’t even live nearby. It wasn’t until he’d taken a street down in the factory district on his day off that he saw you again. 

You were just as beautiful as he’d remembered, hair pinned under a cap, lips painted red, you were wearing another linen dress, flowers stitched around the skirt and on the lapels. You were leaving a dress factory. That’s where you must’ve worked. He watched you twirl in your dress, laughing at something another woman had said to you. The gaggle of them speaking such quick Spanish that the few phrases he studied didn’t even make sense to him anymore. 

He swore his heart stopped in his chest when your eyes met his, a firm blush spreading across your cheeks. Bucky, the hopeless romantic that he is, would tell everyone that time stood still. There you were, he would say, his future wife. Pin Curled and sweet, dark lashes and rose petal lips waiting for your first kiss. Like you’d been made for him. He would say that in that moment the stars aligned and brought you to him. 

He was a sucker like that. 

Steve had stopped a few steps ahead of him, noticing that his friend wasn’t following, the group of girls you had been walking out with also stopped, looking between the two of you and giggling at the sight. One girl pushed you forward and you turned to glare at her saying something to her that Bucky couldn’t hear. He took one step forward and then another, thumbing through the pages of the book and swallowing heavily, hands sweating. He’d never been this nervous talking to a dame before, never. He raised the book to his eyesight, glancing at you before looking back down at the page, 

“Lo siento,” [I’m sorry] He said in just about the worst pronunciation you’d ever heard, the girls behind you giggled and you shushed them with a perfectly red lacquered hand, he smiled nervously continuing, “Eres tan hermosa,” [You are so beautiful] He flipped a couple more pages not being able to find what he wanted to say next when you gently grasped his wrist, smiling at him. 

“James.” His heart almost dropped out of his ass as you said his name for the first time, “Hello.” Very heavily accented and you bit your lip with insecurity. 

“Hi.” He breathed. He looked back down at his book, finding what he wanted to say next, “Te estaba buscando.” [I was looking for you.] His pronunciation was horrible and he knew it. But the thought was still there. 

“Uhm…” You looked at him nervously, the girls were sure to gossip about this later. This white man who was holding a Spanish phrase book telling you about how you were beautiful and he was looking for you. 

“Y/N!” Came a yell, Bucky watched an older woman approach, she looked so similar it had to be your mother, “Que haces con este hombre blanco?” [What are you doing with this white man?] The older woman gripped your arm, looking at the girls behind you, “Veta a casa.” [Go home.] She spat to the other girls, glaring back at Bucky as you looked at him apologetically. He caught a few words. He knew casa meant home, he also knew blanco meant white. But he was unsure about the rest. 

Steve stood awkwardly off to his side, a silent witness to this strange situation. “That’s her I’m guessing?” The little shit grinned next to him. Bucky turned to his friend, matching his grin. 

“Yeah.” His heart was still racing, “And now I know where she works.” He looked up at the tall factory building next to them. 

He looked around the flower shop, the various blooms staring back at him. He wasn’t sure what to get, what you would like. Roses were maybe too presumptuous and a little too expensive “Can I help you?” The older woman asked him. She was wearing an apron over her plaid dress, hands brown with dirt. Bucky smiled softly, 

“I’m a little lost here,” He admitted. The older woman smiled, 

“What’s she like?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets looking over the blooms. 

“Perfect?” He offered, laughing, “But beautiful, sweet…” His eyes scanned the arrangements around him, “I don’t have a whole lot to spare, but…” The older woman nodded, understanding. 

“You could always do a single stem,” The older woman plucked a beautiful red flower from an arrangement, “If she’s as sweet as you believe, she’d be more than happy with it.” A peony. Vibrant red. Like your lipstick. 

He waited outside the factory for you. Hair slicked down, he wore a tie, his work uniform stuffed in the backseat of his car. He hoped you wouldn’t notice that he smelled a little like motor oil under his cologne. He barely made it before the door opened and his palms immediately sweat in a Pavlovian response. The anticipation of seeing you. 

Your dress was yellow this time. Stunning against you skin, yellow and white plaid. He wondered if every color was made just for you. Your eyes immediately met his this time, a shy smile spreading across your face. He timidly stepped a foot closer, 

“Hello, James.” In your beautiful broken English. 

“Hola.” Your nose crinkled when you smiled. “Oh, here.” The vibrant red peony being handed over to you, you twirled the stem between your fingers as he pulled the well worn book from his pocket. “Uhm.. Te ves hermosa hoy.” [You look beautiful today] He looked at you for your response, a red dusting on your cheeks as you held the flower up to your nose. 

“Es guapo.” [He’s handsome.] One of the girls teased you to which your eyes widened and you turned to glare at her, shooing her away. 

“Has estado practicando?” [Have you been practicing?] You bit your lip knowing he probably wouldn’t understand that. “How,” You started, “are you?” He grinned, he could respond to this one. Flipping back,

“Muy bien, como estas?” [Very well, how are you?] It took him a bit too long to say four words, but the smile on your face was worth it. 

“Bien,” [Good.] You replied. 

“Away!” You mother was back, standing in front of you this time, looking into Bucky’s face. His cheeks flushed. “Go away!” Your mother’s english was worse than yours, the words coming out thick and accented he almost didn’t understand. “Mantente alejado de ella.”[Stay away from her] She was scary, your mother. He looked to you for help, fingers nervously moving against the spine of the book in his hand. 

“El es una madre inofensiva.” [Mama, he’s harmless.] You explained, but your mother’s face turned red, turning fully to you she said, 

“Él te arruinárá.” [He will ruin you.] Her voice was tense and Bucky couldn’t begin to understand what she said as he watched her drag you away again. But it was fine, he was back tomorrow to try again. 

And he tried again, and again. It became a constant. He was spending $1.30 every week on flowers, considering he was only making $25 a week working for his Dad it was a good chunk of his money. He’d show up with a red peony for you every day. The girls, he knew, were making fun of him but the five minutes in between when you’d get off of work and when your mother would get off of work were the best part of his entire day. He was showing up even on his days off, rain or shine. 

Today he felt victorious, your mother hadn’t yelled at him. She simply looked at him and raised an eyebrow to you saying, “El no se rinde.” [He doesn’t give up.] With a smile and laugh. She pulled you away a little more gently that time, taking a look back at him and shaking her head. 

“You know it’s going to be hard,” Steve said to him once. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky bit into the burger Frankie, the waitress, had just put in front of him. His favorite burger at his favorite diner, he’d have to bring you here. Maybe the two of you could split a milkshake. He wondered if you’d ever had a chocolate malt. Steve looked at him incredulously,

“I can’t tell if you’re dumb or blind.” He’d slipped a picture from his sketchpad over, a picture he’d sketched of you for Bucky. His heart fluttered at the sight, tracing your jaw. 

“She’s it for me pal, nothing complicated about it.” The temperature had just begun to drop, a hot August ending. Fall was sweeping through the city, Steve was just starting art school, Bucky was pulling overtime at the shop saving up cash to move out and start his life. Hopefully with you. 

“Buck.” Steve sighed, “You know I have no problem with it, but…your parents, literally almost everyone else… it’s illegal.” Bucky paused, a few fries in his mouth. 

“It’s not technically illegal in New York.” He knows, he looked it up. “Just not…”

“Not approved of.” Steve finished for him. He sighed heavily, sitting back in his seat. “It’s gonna be difficult, pal.” Bucky shook his head, 

“Nuthin’ could be difficult when I have her,” A sip of soda, “Nuthin.”

The next day when Bucky showed up with his flower your Mother was already waiting for him when he pulled his car up. He finally got the windows working. She knocked heavily on his window before he’d even pulled the keys out. 

“Come.” She said, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to a man, a scary one by Bucky’s count, who was standing where he’d usually wait for you. “Preguntarle.” [Ask him.]

The man was hispanic, but not old enough to be your father. Your brother maybe? “She wants to know what you keep doing here.” The guy’s English was perfect, his voice gruff and accented, but perfect. 

“I’m…” Bucky started nervously, “I want to date her daughter.” The guy scoffed, making Bucky feel like an idiot standing there with his one flower. 

“Él quiere llevarla a una cita.” [He wants to take her out on a date] The older woman scoffed as well. He smiled sheepishly. She looked at Bucky, studying him for a moment, “Dile que Y/N no es un juguete.” [Tell him Y/N is not a toy.]

“She’s not a toy,” The man said, he looked at the older woman before continuing on his own, “Look, Y/N is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s never going to happen. Your kind is not allowed with our kind.” Bucky felt anger rising in his chest. The man lay a hand on his shoulder heavily, “I’m saying this honestly, if you care about Y/N in any way you’ll back off. You’ll ruin her reputation with our people if you keep showing up here. The women are already gossiping about you showing up here everyday.” 

“This is about her being Spanish?” Bucky asked. 

“She’s Cuban.” The guy explained, “You are privileged enough to pretend not to care about race, but this is only an obsession, you’ll ruin her reputation and leave her when you find someone of your own kind to be with.” The man’s grip on Bucky’s shoulder tightened, a warning. “Get back in your car and don’t come back. If you do, our conversation may not be so pleasant next time.” 

Bucky looked to the older woman with pleading eyes, pulling the Spanish phrases book from his pocket, but before he could find anything the man across from him snatched it from his fingertips. “I said go.” 

Bucky wanted to pummel him. He wanted to punch the guy right in the jaw, but he didn’t. He’d find another way to see you. He’d figure something out. The flower in his hand dropped to his passenger seat as he sat heavily behind the wheel, staring out at the doors to the factory. You walked out just in time to see him drive away. 

Nueva York. That’s what your Mother called it. A new start in America where anything could happen. Your belly had never been that full before. There were no jobs in Havana. Less and less by the day. Your nimble fingers had always been useful as a seamstress, but the less money people have, the less money they had to spend paying someone else to fix their hemlines for them. Your Mother and you moved here in the beginning of the summer, hopeful for a new life.

And you found one. 

The neighborhood of Sunset Park had a growing Hispanic community the two of you had quickly nestled yourselves in. A small one bedroom apartment became your home. The two of you not needing much space. You’d quickly found factory work through a neighbor. Not exactly a seamstress, but you did spend 12 hours a day hunched over a sewing machine. Pennies saved and eventually you’d have enough money to live comfortably. You might even have enough to get a new bolt of fabric to make you and your Mother some dresses. Maybe. 

The only thing you had to look forward to every day were the few minutes watching a handsome man trip over his words, speaking broken Spanish to you and flipping, very endearingly through a book trying to have a conversation. 

It’d gotten a little easier lately, a boy in your apartment building helping you and your Mother learn English and with James practicing his Spanish you’d been getting a little farther past ‘how are you’s in the past week or so. The growing collection of dried flowers in your closet was becoming alarming, the row of dead peonies hanging by their stems, but you didn’t have the heart to throw them away. 

That’s maybe why it hurt so much when you’d exited work today, waiting to see the blue eyed boy that made your heart flutter in your chest, and saw him driving away. Your Mother and Mateo staring at the back of it. “Qué hiciste?” [What did you do?] Neither of them answered you, sharing a look. 

Your eyes met the back of the fading car once more, longing in your chest, eyes prickling with tears. “Vamos,” [Come on] Your Mother called, beginning down the street. You sent a steely glare to Mateo, turning to follow her away, his large footsteps following. 

When you first came to America almost five months ago both you and your Mother were enamored with Mateo. She’d teased that you’d found a husband the first day you’d moved in, but the more time you spent with him the less you liked him. He worked a taxi service, one his family started. They had a good amount of money, promising, is what your Mother had said. He could provide for you. But he was pompous. He thought because he had a little bit of money he was running the whole block. His ego soured your opinion of him. If it wasn’t for the fact he was helping you learn English you would have closed your door to him a long time ago. 

Your Mother didn’t want this life for you. Truthfully she’d brought you to America so you’d marry, find a nice Cuban boy and settle down. Let him provide for you. Take care of her grandchildren God willing. It wasn’t as though you didn’t want that life. You wanted to marry, you wanted love. You loved children and always wanted to be a mother but the most important thing to you was love. 

When James approached you that first time you were confused, yes. You hadn’t understood a word he said. But he was handsome and he made you feel butterflies in your stomach. You felt as though his blue eyes could drown you, like a siren’s call, you’d lost yourself in them. But you’d found yourself embarrassed at the counter when the man was angrily talking to him. James was animatedly arguing back, in words you didn’t understand. Taking the eight cents you’d had for bread and slamming them on the counter. 

You’d been surprised when he’d actually left successfully with the bread, you had been peering for the sign the shopkeeper had pointed to before he’d actually drug you in the store, and your stomach dropped when you’d found it while inside. You should have known you weren’t welcome in that part of town. A little too far outside of your little barrio. 

You’d like to think it was fate, God ordained. You’d thought about it again when you saw him outside the factory for the first time. He was nervous, but so were you. You thought it was cute, him flipping through the phrasebook trying to figure out what to say. It warms your heart and every day since you couldn’t wait to see him. He’d even ignored your Mother and kept coming. The collection of red peonies growing by the day. 

It broke your heart to see his car driving away from you. And you knew exactly who was to blame. 

“No tenes derecho.” [You have no right] You stomped up the stairs next to Mateo. “Deberías mantener tu nariz fuera de oso.” [You should keep your nose out of it]

“Te quiero, Y/N.” [I love you Y/N] His arm gently grabbed your hand, “Please don’t do this.” Your jaw clenched, heart still aching from the sight of James driving away from you. 

“I… hate… you.” His hand let go of yours, dropping his to his side as you returned walking up the stairs and entered your apartment, slamming the door behind you. 

Germany had just invaded Poland.


	2. 1940

It was snowing, thick and blanketed in New York. The city streets hadn’t been plowed yet. Kids were having snowball fights in Sunset Park. They were pulling sleds down the street, laughing. The New Year freshly rung in, resolutions formed and already broken. Bucky Barnes drug his bundled up ten year old sister behind him back up the hill he’d just sled down with her.

“Y’know this would be a lot easier if you’d get out of the sled.” She cackled from her seat,

“How else are you gonna get some real muscle?” She jeered, “What girl is gonna let you bring her home looking like that?” Bucky had plenty of muscle, he told himself. He was no strong man but a few rounds in the boxing ring each week kept him fit and fast. 

“I get plenty of girls.” The teen scoffed. The little girl rolled her eyes as her brother stopped at the top of the hill.

“We never see any.” It was true. He never brings any of the girls he takes out home. Never did. But, he thinks, he’d bring you home.

He’d bring you home in a heartbeat.

His own heart skipped, wondering what you were doing right now. Just as he wondered what you were doing every day for the last four months. He was working up the courage to go back. He was. And in between shifts at the shop and the few boxing matches he was doing for some extra cash, he hadn’t found much time to try to make it down there. But he knew where you were. He knew you liked him too. Maybe, possibly.

And that’s all that mattered.

He turned, hands on his hips looking at the girl with cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her little nose tipped red as well and sparkly white teeth smiling at him.

“Just because you don’t see any doesn’t mean they’re not around,” He say heavily on the sled behind her, bracing his hands against the hill. “I’m pretty sure I found the dame I’m gonna marry.” And Becca squealed as he pushed off the hill propelling them quickly down the side. 

And as they tumbled down in the snow it was like God heard his prayers. A curl of your red lips and fingers clutching the fence on the other side. You’d found him this time. 

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. Heels black and sensible, the peak of a well worn dark green dress underneath what looked like a brand new coat, matching green scarf wrapped around your delicate throat. Those red lips he’s been dreaming about in more ways than one. And underneath a darling hat were your pinned curls, tightly placed on the nape of your neck. 

He stumbled and fell, sliding on the snow to land at your feet on the other side of the fence. “Hi.” He breathed, breath coming in a cloud in front of his face. 

“Hi.” Your voice sang back. It’d been so long since he’s heard your voice. The sound that made his toes curl in his shoes. 

“Te he extrañado. [I’ve missed you.]” He was a fool. He knows that. He’d never been this smitten. If the boys could see him now. If Steve could see him now. He’d laugh at him for being such a sucker. He watched you shift to one foot, pressing yourself closer to the gate, your face peering at him from over it. 

“Have you?” You were coy. Your lips pulled into a smile. He’d be a fool every day if it meant you’d smile at him like that. 

Bucky didn’t know what to say, “Como has estado? [How have you been?]” He asked, standing from his now soaked knees. He could do it. Lean in just a little closer and steal some love from your lips. He could totally do it. 

“I’ve been well,” You adjusted your grip on the fence, “Nunca hacía tanto frío en La Habana. [It was never so cold in Havana.]” You tugged a perfect lip between your teeth. “It’s a lot to adjust to.” 

Becca had been oddly quiet eyeing this interaction from behind. Silent. Studying. 

“Have you…” He gestured behind himself to the sled that sat empty, his sister standing silently next to it. “Have you been sledding yet?” He grinned. You shook your head,

“No, not yet.” He leaned his full body against the gate, the fabric of his pants brushing your hose clad legs, fingers gripping the fence just above yours.

“That’s a shame,” He breathed, “Es la mejor parte de tener nieve. [It’s the best part of having snow.]” Other than picturing the two of you cozy by a fire. Feet tucked close to him, your curves pressed against him. He felt hot with the thought. “Come join us.” He pushed the gate open, you stood awkwardly on the other side. Your eyes drifted to the ten year old girl behind him. Her quick footfalls reminded Bucky she was even there.

“I’m Becca.” Her hand thrusts out in front of her at you, “Are you my brother’s girlfriend?” You took her hand but met Bucky’s eyes in confusion. He was sure you didn’t know that word.

“She’s my friend, Becca.” He turned to you, “Ella es mi hermana. [She’s my sister.]” He’d been practicing his Spanish. At first the guys down on the docks, the ones who worked in the factories there, laughed at him. They didn’t pay him any mind. But he tried. He was still trying. They’ve been helping him now with his pronunciation. He could make it there once a week at most but he hoped it showed, his effort. “Becks this is Y/N.” 

A glimmer of recognition passed over Becca’s face. You stood there awkwardly, tense and unknowing. The Barnes’ have been in America practically since the first settlers. But truth be told they were once immigrants too. That’s how Winnie viewed it. In the Barnes household they typically didn’t concern themselves with immigration, but George Barnes once said, 

“They made America the land of equal opportunity and then pitched a fit when everyone wanted to have a fair shot.” The family didn’t care that immigrants were coming by the boatload. They believed in the American Dream. For everyone. But it wasn’t discussed often. 

Becca’s eyes were wide, she grinned, “I’ve never been anywhere else but here. Where are you from? What’s it like there? I like how you do your hair. Could you do mine like that?” Babbling you looked overwhelmed, the English being spewed at you faster than you could understand it.

“Becca, hold your horses.” Bucky laughed, he gently grasped your arm.

“She can be overwhelming,” He said with a comforting smile. His heart was racing. He looked down at your shoes, the little heels he knew would probably get stuck in the soft snow. “Do you want to sled?” He gestured at the old wooden thing that he was sure had been in his family since the beginning of time itself. You tugged your lip between your teeth once more and before he could help it his thumb met your chin and pulled it free. “No dejaré que te pase nada malo. Lo juro. [I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I swear.]” His blue eyes met yours and you nodded. 

“Okay.” He could tell you were hesitant and he looked down again at your shoes. He looked back at Becca and grinned. 

“Get on the sled.” She rolled her eyes and you squealed as he lifted you off your feet and carried you the few feet to the wooden toboggan. This was the best idea he’d ever had, he reasoned, your hands clutching his own coat in shock, your breath so close to his own lips it almost made him trip over his own two feet as he settled you behind Becca on the sled before grabbing the rope and making the steady climb up the hill.

“How do I tell her you’re an idiot?” Bucky rolled his eyes at his sisters question.

“He’s funny.” You replied. He tightened his grip on the rope, biceps and thighs working to pull the both of you up the hill. 

“He’s stupid.” Becca laughed she leaned in and whispered something to you out of earshot of himself, but he didn’t care once he heard your peal of laughter. It gave him what he needed to push through and finally reach the top. This was gonna be the best part. He settled himself behind you, bracing his hands against the snow just as he did with Becca a few minutes earlier. 

“Get ready,” He whispered hotly into your ear. His heart was racing. Surely he was a minute away from a heart attack. Your waist nestled against his hips and he hoped you didn’t feel the erection that was now throbbing in his slacks. He pushed off against the ground, the three of you screaming in delight as the toboggan raced down the hill. 

Your perfume smacked him in the face. A sweet floral scent that smells almost like those peonies he’d been so keen to give you months before, mixed with something a little more bare skin. He wanted to press a kiss to the nape of your neck. Right where the scarf dipped and revealed your caramel skin to him. 

It was over too quickly. You and Becca giggling in the snow, holding tightly onto one another as he admired you from his place behind. He imagined a future between the two of you. He imagined a little girl that was yours and his in this same situation. And he wanted it, he wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted ever in his life. 

It was a strange feeling. But he leaned into it. 

“Did you like it?” His raspy voice asked you. Your eyes met his, grinning ear to ear. 

“Can we do that again?” You asked. He grinned in return. He’d do anything for you. Even if it meant icing his sore muscles the next day because he for damn sure pulled you up that hill every time. 

“Like this.” Becca said, spinning the twine around the stem of the flower, “Then you can hang it upside down until it dries, or you could press it between two heavy books.” Bucky nodded, taking the information in. Peonies were hard to come by here in winter, but he wanted to keep tradition. That’s what he’d been giving you since the start and he wanted to keep it that way.

He imagined himself bringing you flowers every week. A vase full of them on the kitchen table, always fresh and fragrant. The two of you sharing breakfast before work with them sitting in between. Your bare feet, swollen in his lap, you rubbing your pregnant belly as you talked to him about what you did that day. The flowers a silent witness in the background. 

Becca twirled the stem between her fingers, studying her brother for a moment, “I really like her.” She said. You, she really liked you. Becca couldn’t speak any Spanish but she helped you through your broken English as best as she could. She really enjoyed the thick accent and had asked once again if you could pin her hair like hers, which you had eyed Bucky cautiously before replying, 

“Maybe one day.” 

It was clear to him that you were nervous. He couldn’t quite register why. Some niggling part of his brain nagged him with the thought. The reason why. “I really like her too.” Bucky replied, pressing a peony between the thin pages of a dictionary, laying a thicker English textbook on top. 

“She was the one you were talking about, right?” Becca was smart. Very smart. Bucky was proud of that but also sometimes she was too smart for her own good.

“Yeah,” He blushed, wrapping the twine around the bar in his closet between his church suit and a dark blue button down. “She is.” Becca grinned,

“That’s another sister then.” Which made Bucky laugh. Becca loved her sisters, the girls were pretty close and did a lot together, but it was a fairly common joke in the Barnes household of the power struggle between the two men against the five women living in the home. Another tally against them. 

Bucky didn’t mind at all. “Yeah, maybe.” He smiles, “If she’ll let me take her on a date first.” 

It had come a week later, stuffed in the mailbox at the mechanic shop. He didn’t know how you’d found out where he worked but he’s pretty sure his surname slapped on the front of the building didn’t help. Nor did he really care. He’d had Steve slip you the dried peony two days before. 

The small man waited outside of your work, Bucky around the corner and out of sight. You’d been leaving with your usual crowd, your Mother quickly approaching when the bloom was placed in your hand, Steve slipping quickly out of sight. The little slip of paper wrapped tightly around the stem loosened as you slipped it into your jacket pocket in just enough time that your mother was none the wiser.

You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen

Scrawled in practiced script. 

Bucky’s heart was racing as he stuffed the letter in his pocket before running the rest of the mail to his father. He’d read it when he got home, the envelope weighing heavily in his pocket for the rest of his shift.

It was when he’d scrubbed his oil stained hands three times that he’d pulled it from his uniform, the envelope an off white, 

James

written swirly and perfect on the front. His heart skipped as he brought the envelope to his nose. A floral perfume that made his heart sing, he gently pried the envelope open, a swift slide with the sharp letter opener across the top. 

A picture of you.

Gorgeous and sweet. Hair perfectly curled, lips perfectly painted. Black and white, laughter in your face as you stood in front of a fruit cart in Havana. His finger traced your shape. His mouth watered with it. 

The letter was more swirly script, a practiced hand. 

James, 

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for my flowers. I cherish them, always. I’ve kept all that you’ve given to me. I wish to see you again. The sledding I think you called it was very fun for me, the snow has taken a lot of getting used to but it’s a nice change from Havana. 

I don’t have many pictures from my home. This is one taken not long before we came to Nueva York. It’s perhaps the most recent picture I have of myself. Thank you for being who you are,

Y/N

Bucky read it three times over, lying on his bed like a schoolgirl, belly down, feet up. Eyes tracing the picture of you that you’d enclosed in the letter. 

You liked him. He was sure of it now. Otherwise why else would you give him a picture? 

“Dinner!” His mother yelled from the bottom of the steps.

It took a lot of planning, coordination and Steve’s footwork to make this happen. Bucky checked himself in the side mirror again, the stubborn curl on his forehead refused to stay gelled back. He combed it back once more, hoping it would stay there when he saw you turn the corner, looking slyly behind you before picking up pace and jogging in your flats to his passenger door, he barely beat you there, yanking the door open and saying, “Hi.” With a soft smile. 

You smiled softly in return, nervously, “Hi.” The door shut and he circled the car and slid into the drivers seat.

“I hope you like peanut butter and jelly.” He smiled nervously. He’d been nervously packing the basket all morning, taking things out and placing them back in. His Mom had baked some chocolate chip cookies the day before so he was sure to wrap four of them very delicately in cloth before placing them on top of the wedge of cheddar, grapes, apples, and two sloppily made sandwiches in a basket he had to steal from his Mom’s linen closet. It now sat in the backseat with a blanket and two bottles of coke he’d bought from the corner store. 

The old clunker that had definitely seen better days rattled along as the two of you sat silently. This was the first time since the day you met that you’ve actually been alone. Now it seemed as though there wasn’t much to say. 

Spring had just shaken the chill from the air, but not so much the ground as Bucky lay the thick blanket down. Your hands gripped around the handles of the basket as you gazed around the park. You seemed to be looking for something but Bucky couldn’t imagine what. 

“Here,” He grabbed the basket from you and helped you sit, your skirt covering most of your legs in your position. You could feel a slight damp chill beneath you. 

It was the first warm day of spring, the two of you really lucked out as you tucked into your sandwiches, the bottles of coke sweating between you. Bucky gave you a grin, 

“Have you ever been to the movies? That’s where we should go for our next date.” Bucky took a bite as your cheeks flushed, his knees close to yours on the blanket. 

“I’m not sure I’ll be allowed…” You spoke nervously. You looked out at the park, mostly empty aside from a few mothers pushing prams and smaller children tailing them. 

Bucky brushed a piece of hair out of your face, exposing your cheek and pulling your attention from the others in the park back to him. “We’ll figure it out,” He soothed. He watched a smile pull across your lips and you took a bite from your sandwich. 

We’ll figure it out.

“I’ve never been to the movies before.” You breathed. Knees almost touching as you turned into each other. Bucky grinned, 

“I just took Becks to see The Wizard of Oz and my sisters really wanted to see Gone With The Wind so we went as a family you woulda loved Gone With The Wind,” Bucky rambled, “You’d love my family, they’d love you… Becks already does,” Your laugh. It stretched the grin on his face even further,

“¿Ya estás pensando en llevarme a casa? [Already thinking about bringing me home?]” You jested. His grin never wavered, 

“I’ve wanted to bring you home the minute I saw you.” You felt your cheeks heat up. There was a tense silence before you watched him tug his pink lip between his teeth. “So what do you like to do?” He took a sip of coke, “When you’re not working.” You pondered for a moment, before running a finger over the swirl of the rose in your skirt.

“I like making my dresses,” You met his eyes, “And music… dancing.” Bucky sat up straighter, 

“I love dancing, and music, and the dresses you wear.” You laughed, rocking back slightly as he joined you, “I like all of those things.” The sandwiches gone, the cheese laid out as Bucky carved an apple with a knife, handing you a slice before eating one of his own. 

“Have you been dancing since being in America?” Bucky asked, laying a slice of cheese over his apple and taking a bite. You nodded your head,

“There’s a Cuban club in my barrio that has live music and dancing almost every night of the week.” Bucky’s eyebrows raised, “Maybe we can go sometime.” A hand met a hand, soft skin against his. So soft. Bucky traces his thumb against the back of your hand, his calloused pad relishing in the soft skin there. A shoulder pressed to a shoulder. The two of you sitting close. And closer, and closer. 

“I work at my Dad’s shop.” Bucky said, his arm around your shoulder as you lay together under the swaying leaves of the giant oak. “Eventually he’ll retire and it’ll become my shop, but right now he wants me to start working on the books and fixing some stuff around the house he hasn’t gotten to yet, then I’ll start working more hours at the shop.” He shrugged.

“Have you always wanted it?” The shop. Your cheek pressed to his shoulder. 

“I wanted to be a boxer,” Bucky laughed, “I’m not bad at it, I’m a good mechanic, but… I always wanted to go a couple rounds with Joe Louis.” The current heavyweight champion. You could see the scars on Bucky’s knuckles as you turned his hand in yours, the motor oil stuck in the corners of his nails from his shift yesterday that he couldn’t quite scrub from his nail beds. 

“What did you want to do?” He asked you, fingers brushing up and down your bare arm, eyes watching the leaves sway and clouds drift across the sky. 

You’d never really thought about it. You shrugged, “We were never given much of a choice,” You explain, “A wife and mother,” You lifted your face from his shoulder to look at him, his eyes dragging from the sky to meet yours, “Maybe…” His finger traced a stitched rose on your side. “Maybe I would make my dresses, maybe I would design clothes.” His hand drifted up your side to your shoulder, rubbing a thumb against your sleeve. 

“You make beautiful dresses.” He agreed. You blushed. His hooded eyes causing a shiver to run down your spine. He lifts his hand to your face, cupping your cheek. Lips a breath away, the heat of your skin under his palm. And then pain. 

A coke bottle, one just like the two empty ones that had already been stuffed back into the basket beside you, landed on your bodies. Bucky moved over you, his back in your view as he sat up and stared down the man whose arm was still raised from throwing, his wife standing behind him, both with tense brows and frowns. 

“This is a family park,” The man yelled, “You’re not allowed here.” Bucky bristled, standing from the blanket as your heart dropped in your chest. 

“We’re just having lunch.” Bucky’s voice was tense, scary. “We’re allowed to be here just like everyone else.” The man scoffed, 

“You maybe, but not her.” Bucky looked back to you, your eyes downcast to the ground. Bucky stepped to the man,

“She can go wherever she wants.” He spat at the man, hands curling into fists. The man glared at you from over Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, she can go back to wherever the hell she came from.” A word never heard by Bucky before tumbled from the man’s lips, but the way you reacted to it made Bucky flush with anger. The man’s wife screamed as Bucky’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. 

“James!” You stood from the blanket, grabbing Bucky’s bicep as he went to swing again, the man stumbling back and raising his own fists. He slowed, turning towards you as the man swung his own fist, connecting with Bucky’s temple. Blood poured from the man’s nose as Bucky turned back from you and punched him again. 

It was happening so fast, police who’d been patrolling nearby had come to break up the fight, Bucky and the stranger being separated. You watched them interrogate the two men, the stranger angrily pointing over at you as Bucky spoke from his seat on the grass, 

“Y/N estará bien, no te preocupes. [Y/N it’ll be okay, don’t worry.]” Your line of sight was blocked by the officer stepping between you. There was nothing technically illegal about what you were doing. Having a picnic in the park. They couldn’t arrest you for that, what they could arrest you for was disturbing the peace and the fight between Bucky and the stranger. That was the fear. 

“Take her home.” The cop spat, “And if you know what’s good for you kid, you wouldn’t bring her around here or anywhere anymore.” The hostility. The anger. It sunk like a pit in your stomach. Bucky’s face was still pulled in a glare, but directed at the ground this time. Resolve on his face as he stood, walking to you and gently grabbing your arm, and picking up the blanket and basket with his other hand. 

“James.” You whispered softly. A bruise was blooming on the side of his head. A gash where the man’s wedding ring had caught. His knuckles were split. He sighed heavily, reaching the car and dropping your arm, digging his keys from his pocket. 

“I can’t fucking believe some people.” He spat. “It’s ridiculous.” His eyes met yours after he tossed the basket and the blanket into the trunk heavily, shutting it with a thunk. You shrugged, arms wrapped around your middle. The anger drained from his face as he saw the tear tracks on your cheeks, the mascara you’d been wearing smudged around the corners of your eyes. “I’m so sorry dahlin.” His gentle hands coming to grab your elbows. 

“It’s just how it is.” You mumbled. Bucky shook his head, 

“But it shouldn’t be,” His hands moved from your elbows to curl around your back, pulling your tense body tightly into his. Holding you tightly, a hand soothingly rubbing your back. “I’m sorry that people treat you this way dahlin.” 

The tears were dried and you pulled away from him, feeling the absence of his warmth as you rounded the car to the passenger side, reaching for the door but Bucky beat you to it. He opened it silently letting you sit in the passenger seat before softly closing the door and rounding the front. As he shut his door he looked back at you, you could feel him want to say something. “Do you want me to take you home?” His voice was weak and sad. It broke your heart. 

Truthfully you didn’t want to go home. You didn’t want to leave him. In his arms you felt safe, but your Mama and Mateo’s words were ringing through your ears. His kind doesn’t do well with ours. He is fascinated by something new. Like a baby with a new toy. You’d soon be discarded and he would marry a girl who looked like him. Someone who was easier to talk to. Someone he didn’t have to stumble through his words with. 

But he was trying. He was trying so hard. The sweet words that poured from his mouth making you drunk with love. How could it be love? You remembered a boy from the island, the one who lived four doors down who would walk with you to school every day. Your tiny child heart fluttering with his fingers brushing yours and him carrying your books for you. 

This was nothing like that. 

This wasn’t fluttering. This was pounding. Like hurricane waves on the shore. Crashing and ebbing and flowing. Consuming. You had a box under the couch. Dried peonies and the little note asking you on this date. You’d wish you could add to it, but after today you weren’t even sure if you’ll have anything to add to it in the future. 

“Yes.” You answered. As much as you didn’t want to. You had to do what you felt was right in the moment. 

Bucky’s heart fell. 

He was back to not seeing you. And Steve was done with Bucky’s shit. 

“What are you doing?” Steve asked him. Voice tense, snapping. Bucky wiped his hands on the oil stained rag in his pocket, not taking his eyes away from the engine of the car he had been working tirelessly on for the last hour. 

“I’m about to change the catalytic converter and put on–” 

“No Buck.” Steve’s pencil was posed over his sketchpad. A warm bottle of coke next to him, he had to take it easy drinking soda so his blood sugar wouldn’t spike. He’d usually drink half the bottle and Bucky would finish the rest. “With Y/N. It’s been a week since your date and you’ve done nothing but mope around and act like you can’t walk three blocks to go see her.” Bucky’s jaw twitched, 

“I can’t.” He lifted a dirty car part from under the hood. “You shoulda seen how upset she was Stevie.” His eyes glassy as he picked up the new clean part, disappearing back under the hood. The soft rambling of the radio in the background. “I put her in that situation. It’s my fault for that.” 

“You didn’t know someone was going to do something like that.” Steve defends, “How could you have known? If that couple hadn’t walked by–”

“Whose to say someone else wouldn’t have done the same thing? I can’t put her in a situation where she could get seriously hurt. That bottle hit me, but if it had hit her?” Bucky scoffed, “I would be sitting in a holding right now or on my way to Sing Sing I swear.” Steve sat back in his chair, staring at his friend. 

“Sunset Park is growing in Hispanic population.” He stated factually, “Things will change, people will grow. This segregation won’t last forever. Not when there’s guys like us.” Bucky smirked at him, 

“Barnes and Rogers knocking every piece of shit on their ass in Brooklyn.” He joked, “Home grown vigilantes.” 

“We should go.” Steve offered, “Tonight.” Bucky stared at him skeptically. 

“To Sunset Park?” Bucky’s heart skipped in his chest, as Steve smirked at him, 

“Yeah, to Sunset Park.” 

To this little barrio that Bucky and Steve didn’t belong in. And it was clear. A culture shock. But everyone who glanced at them didn’t bat an eye. Maybe they were used to interlopers? The temperature had just begun to rise in the city, but on these streets it felt like summer had already hit. It was at least ten degrees hotter here, the black tar holding that heat. Music spilled into the streets. This horn heavy fast paced jive that Bucky imagined was coming from the little dance club you’d told him about. Maybe that’s where he’d find you? 

The club was hot, messy. Bodies everywhere. A dancing style the boys had never seen before. It was close, so close. Sweat lined bodies and rhythmic hips gyrating to a pulsing beat. The band was playing on a small stage and a woman in a tight red dress was crooning her smoky voice over a microphone with words Bucky half picked up.

Something about lovers. Something about a revolution. He couldn’t be sure. The woman’s words spilled fast. His heart stopped when he spotted the bar. Your hair was loose, spilling in thick waves down your back and pinned back by a red peony. A matching red dress, not tight like the singers, but tighter than anything he’d ever seen you it. Your cherry painted lips parted as you sipped from a tumbler glass filled with some kind of amber liquid with a slice of orange and a cherry. 

He felt naughty, like he was taking a peek at you in a way he wasn’t supposed to. 

He’d never even seen his own mother without her hair perfectly pinned and curled. The hair loose and free, combed out and he wanted to bury his face in it. He could almost imagine you so soft, so relaxed and carefree. You laughed at something the girl said next to you, but before his feet moved to bring himself closer to you Mateo came into frame. 

The tall Hispanic man was handsome. Bucky could see that. His hair was slicked back and there was a tattoo of a pin up model on his right forearm. A little dangerous, hardly anyone outside of sailors had tattoos. It made Bucky wonder if he was one. If so… you know what they say about sailors. The guy would never be faithful to you. Mateo brushed your hair off your neck, pressing his lips to your cheek. And Bucky’s heart broke.

Had you really given up on him? 

Maybe so.

Maybe this was a mistake. 

“Is that the guy?” Stevie asked from beside him. Bucky nodded, sighing, 

“Yeah.” He quickly turned and walked from the club. The air didn’t feel as hot this time. Bucky stomped angrily a few buildings away, Steve following him at a slower pace. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

Steve sighed heavily, “She likes you Bucky.” 

“I love her.” Bucky emphasized. He shook his head, turning to face his friend, the club music a dull thump against his rib cage. “If she would marry me tonight, I would–”

“You’re so intense, Buck.” Steve sighed and rubbed his forehead, “You’ve been hooked on this girl for almost a year now, I know you love her, but you have to be logical here. She likes you too, I don’t know if she loves you, but she definitely likes you. I think she’s just scared.” Bucky stood, hands on his hips. 

He looked over Steve’s shoulder, watching you step from the club, Mateo hot on your heels. His breath catching in his chest as you caught his eye. He watched your red lips part a slight stumble on your feet and Mateo helped steady you before following your line of sight to see Bucky standing there, mere feet away. 

His lips pulled in a frown, hands leaving your waist as he straightened, pulling his shoulders back. Mateo was a big guy, but so was Bucky. 

“I thought I told you to not come around here anymore.” Mateo yelled. Bucky watched you put a hand to his chest, trying to push him back slightly. 

“I thought you meant the factory.” It spilled from Bucky’s mouth before he could stop it. Shut up Barnes. 

“Bucky,” Steve said to him in warning. The jealousy Bucky felt seeing Mateo’s hands on you flushed his neck. He couldn’t stop.

“You’re a funny man, aren’t you?” Mateo stepped up to him, his chest almost touching Bucky’s, Mateo’s dark brown eyes locking with Bucky’s blue. 

“What are you going to do?” Bucky spat. Your hand pressed to his chest, a hand pressed in likeness to Mateo’s where you pushed them apart, stepping between. 

“Stop it,” You said sternly, “Both of you.” Mateo glared down at you,

“Los hombres estan hablando. [Men are speaking],” He spat, grabbing your arm roughly and yanking you to the side. You stumbled on uneasy feet, buzzed from the drinks in the bar. Steve caught you, helping you steady as Bucky’s fist met Mateo’s jaw. 

A mirror of a week ago. But Mateo didn’t throw a punch back. 

“You see this man.” Mateo pointed to Bucky, fuming, blood in his mouth, “This idiot you’re messing around with.” Bucky smacked the guy’s hand out of his face, the man turning back to him as you started crying. “You see, if you hit me you’re a goddamn hero. If I hit you I get jail time.” Mateo spat blood on Bucky’s shoes. “Stay away from her.”

“Mateo,” You called shakily. “Stop.” Bucky wanted to break his face, but you looked so scared. It was his fault this time. He put you into this position. Not the stranger. Not Mateo. He did this. And he wanted to puke. “James.” Softer this time, almost a whimper. Your glassy eyes meeting his, “Usted tiene que ir. [You have to go.]” He shook his head, 

“Y/N” Bucky knew his voice sounded pathetic. But he’s so sorry. Please don’t leave with Mateo. Please. Your eyes snapped between his and Mateo’s before settling back on his. 

“James, please.” Bucky felt like he was missing out on something here. Some kind of exchange that made him uneasy.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Steve had whispered to you. 

“She’ll be fine.” Mateo bit, laying a hand out and gesturing for you to come over to him. Bucky wanted to kill him. Isn’t that what he said earlier? Sing Sing. Bucky watched you take the few steps on shaky legs back to Mateo’s side. The two boys watching as you looked at them once again before Mateo wrapped and arm around your shoulder, pulling you tightly under his arm. “This is your last warning James.” Mateo glared at the both of them. 

The two of you disappeared into a building across the street. The one Bucky assumed that you lived in. 

“Buck.” Steve started,

“Don’t say anything.” Please. 

This time he stayed away for two weeks. Hands in his jumpsuit pockets. He’d left work early today having worked late yesterday. He had to do this. He didn’t have any time to change, hands still dirty, forehead with a sheen of sweat. The creeping summer sun didn’t help any. His car sat silently in front of him just in case he needed a quick escape.

He’d had a lot of time to think about it. A lot of nights unable to sleep, tossing and turning, cursing himself for being such an idiot. A hothead. That’s what his Ma had called him before. “So stupid.” He mumbled to himself. 

It was embarrassing, but more importantly you probably hated him. The way Mateo grabbed you though, it set his blood boiling. He couldn’t help it. If a man was willing to put his hands on you like that in the street, he could only imagine… no. He didn’t want to imagine that. Fists clenching in his pockets. 

Mateo would never put his hands on you again, not if Bucky could help it. 

The familiar chatter, the girls were finally off work and you stepped out like a dream. Shoulders scandalously bare. The off the shoulder white blouse you wore was tucked into a silky powder blue skirt. Bucky imagined pressing a kiss to your bare skin. He wondered if your neck was as soft as your hands were. 

Your breath faltered when you’d seen him standing there. You’d felt so embarrassed at the way Mateo had acted when he found Bucky outside of the club two weeks ago, but it had been the second time Bucky had fought to defend your honor and honestly you didn’t know how to feel about it. 

He was young. You both were, but what he felt for you seemed so wild and untamed. You’d never experienced this before. It terrified you. 

He pushed off the wall, his hands leaving his pockets. You remembered those hands, calloused, working hands. “I’m sorry.” He said immediately. You felt the eyes of the girls behind you and you wished they would just disappear, but they were nosey and you were going to have no such luck. “I was such an idiot, I shouldn’t have….” the two of you took a step in tandem towards each other. “He shouldn’t put his hands on you like that.” A chill went down your spine. 

Mateo. 

When you’d first moved he was a stunning prospect. Perfect hair, chiseled jaw, a couple of tattoos, and the ability to speak English. He could provide. He could pave a life for you here. But he had a wicked temper. One you’d found yourself at the end of more than once. 

You shake your head. “It’s complicated.” You said, the two of you taking another step closer in tandem. Bucky started at you for a moment, before brushing his fingers against your arm. 

“Please forgive me,” He said, “I never meant to hurt you.” Confusion.

“You didn’t hurt me, James.” You placed your hand on his arm, “I just don’t know what to do, I don’t know if we should be doing this.” Bucky stared at you with glassy eyes. “The more time we spend together the more people seem to hate us.” Your thumb stroked his arm softly. He placed a hand over yours.

“I’m crazy about you dahlin, from the bottom of my heart.” He stated smoothly, “No one else matters, I can take care of you. I wanna take care of you.” Marriage implied. 

“James.” Your voice thick with emotion. The heat between your bodies severe.

“Y/N.” It was your Mother. Bucky stepped back from you and your Mother almost stepped between the two of you. 

“James solo quería verme, eso es todo. [James just wanted to see me that’s all.]” You tried to explain. She held her hand up to you, ceasing you from speaking. She studied James for a moment before shoving her bag in his arms. 

“Take us home.” She said, “My feet hurt.” Bucky looked between you and your mother before quickly nodding and opening the passenger door for her. The older woman slipped into the seat and he shut the door before turning to you questioningly. You only shrugged. You had no idea what she was doing or what she wanted. 

Truly it wasn’t far back to the apartment, but Bucky drove diligently, the car silently parked. And he definitely carried your mother’s bag all the way up to the apartment. You’d unlocked the door, Bucky waiting for the two of you to enter before your mother turned to him, 

“Vamos [Come on].” And he stepped in the apartment. 

It was small.. Cozy. Vibrantly decorated. Pictures of family on the walls and a picture of Jesus hanging over the dining table. The apartment seemed messy, but everything had its place. The two of you stood awkwardly side by side as your Mother began taking food out of the fridge. 

“You fix things? Yes?” Your Mother asked him. He opened and closed his mouth, looking over at you to see you shrug at him again. 

“Yes ma’am.” He stuttered, “I can fix some things.” She nodded, pointing towards the tool box that Mateo had left by the front door. 

“Our bathroom sink isn’t working,” You explained, “Mateo can’t fix it, and we can’t afford a plumber.” You looked to your mother questioningly, to which she gave no reply. Bucky nodded, 

“I’ll take a look at it.” He fixed the sink, then he fixed the bedroom door that’s hinge was loose, and then he fixed the living room window so that it would actually open, letting a cool breeze into the hot apartment. He was sweating and as you and your Mother cooked in the kitchen the temperature had only risen. His jumpsuit was off of his arms and tied around his waist. The white undershirt he wore underneath smudged with dirt and sweat from his work. 

“Here.” A glass with a muddled looking liquid in it. With first sip Bucky couldn’t place the flavor. Something he’d never had before. You sat next to him where he rest on the windowsill. “She wants you to stay for dinner, if that’s okay.” Bucky looked at your Mother’s back. The older woman was spooning something in a pot. He nodded, 

“Of course.” A grin. He finally feels like he’s won this. He did it. He’s in. They’ve cooked him dinner right? His Ma wouldn’t cook dinner for anyone she didn’t like. 

He’d never eaten food like this before. Rice and beans, these fried banana looking things, meat that was spicy and made his tongue burn but he couldn’t stop eating it. Whenever his plate emptied your Mother, Claudia, would refill it. He was grateful for the jumpsuit because if he was wearing slacks he was sure they’d be unbuttoned by now. He leaned back heavily in his seat after his third plate, taking another sip of the sweet juice you’d placed before him when he’d sat down. 

“That was incredible,” Bucky praised, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Caudia smiled, looking between you and him. She looked at you before beginning, “Si vas a hacer esto, debes saber que no será fácil. [If you’re going to do this, you have to know it will not be easy.]” You nodded, looking at Bucky across from you. Your Mother sighed heavily, “Solo quiero que seas feliz mija, eso es todo lo que siempre quise, por eso vinimos aquí [I just want you to be happy mija, that is all I ever wanted, that is why we came here.]”

“Él me hace feliz. [He makes me happy.]” You whispered, cheeks growing hot. Bucky’s hand reached out and grabbed yours softly. 

“Ella me hace feliz. [She makes me happy.]” He agreed, looking at your Mother very seriously. “No quiero nada más que hacerla feliz … por el resto de nuestras vidas. [I want nothing more than to make her happy… for the rest of our lives.]” It was bold, but worked. Your Mother smiling softly and humming. 

“Alright, now do the dishes, an old woman is tired.” She stepped from her chair, circling around to turn the radio in the living room to an ambling level, sitting on the couch and taking out her knitting needles. Leaving the two of you to pack up the leftover food and stand hip to hip at the sink. 

A rambling comes over the radio which your Mother turns up, the hispanic announcer stating that the Germans had begun air attacks on Great Britain. Bucky stiffened beside you, his hands pausing in his drying before continuing, but much slower. 

“Are you okay?” You asked him, he smiled back at you, 

“Yeah, I’m good.” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple. Soft lips against your skin. “We just might be going to war soon is all.” He shrugged, “My old man fought in the last one, he served his country like he was supposed to.” 

“So if we go to war…” Your voice trailed off. Bucky looked at you with a strange expression before his boyish grin came back across his face. 

“Let’s not worry about that right now dahlin,” He bumped your hip softly with his, “It’s a possibility, not a certainty.” You hummed softly in response, unsure. If that’s what he wanted to do you’d support him, you had to right? If we went to war. 

If. 

“I have to talk to you about something.” Bucky sat in front of his parents. The girls were already off at school, their chatter and yelling silenced by the closing of the heavy oak front door. Winnie and George Barnes looked at their son from their places. His father cleaning up the girl’s plates, his mother packing their lunches for the day. 

“What is it son?” George placed the dishes in the sink, turning to sit back down in front of Bucky. 

“I’ve met a girl.” He started, his Mother stopped what she was doing and turned to him fully, “She’s amazing. Smart, beautiful, she makes dresses and is really talented. Becks met her and she’ll tell you how incredible Y/N is….”

“So when are you going to bring her home?” His Mother asked eagerly, laying a hand on his Father’s shoulder. “We’d love to meet her.” He’d never brought anyone home before, he’d never even mentioned a girl to his parents other than school dances. 

“There’s one problem,” He started, “Not to me, not to us, but…” This felt hard to say. He didn’t know how they’d react. “She’s from Cuba.” He said, “I met her last year, when she first arrived, but I haven’t really had the chance to get to know her until now.” He thought back to your apartment, your Mother softly humming to Billie Holiday on the couch, the two of you swaying side by side washing dishes. 

Sitting on the fire escape afterward, your back against his chest. You’d told him about the beaches in Cuba. How you loved playing in the sand as a child. He told you about his Dad talking him to Dodgers games and his Ma trying to teach him how to sew. His fingers weren’t practiced enough for it. You told him about your father. How he died when you were young. He remembers pressing a kiss to your temple. To your cheek when he left. 

His parents sighed, Winnie coming to sit next to George. “Son, it will be very hard for the two of you, you know that right?” His Dad said, it wasn’t a stern voice, but it was firm. Factual. Winnie looked at her husband and then to her son, 

“The world is changing,” She started, “You’re not going to be the first couple to do this and I’m sure you won’t be the last… Do you love her?” 

The smile you gave him as he stood in your doorway, his hands pressed onto the door jam above your head. “I’m gonna marry you, you know that?” He whispered. 

Your eyes widened a fraction before you grinned, “I do.” 

“Yeah Ma,” Bucky smiled, “I do.” The two parents nodded. 

“Okay then.” George nodded, “I think we’ve got a bit of work to do.” He patted his wife’s knee, giving her a kiss before standing. “Let’s get down to the shop kid.” 

“Invite her over for dinner,” Winnie brushed her son’s hair out of his forehead, that errant curl that never seemed to stay in place. “As soon as you can.” Bucky nodded, a grin on his face. 

“Will do Ma.” A kiss to his forehead, 

“I love you.” And he loved her too. He felt lucky to have his parents. He wasn’t sure if they were anyone else they’d be as accepting. Later he’d painted a sign for his Dad. One to go in the front window of the shop. 

EVERYONE WELCOME

The backlash was sure. Bucky and his Dad didn’t care. They were well known and trusted enough to keep business and while they would have never turned anyone away before George wanted to make sure that his son knew he supported him with his decision. Business dipped at first. Men that were once close friends yelling in protest, screaming expletives, slurs. Bucky had to keep himself in check multiple times. 

But George stayed steadfast. “If you don’t do anything,” He said to Bucky as they repaired the front window, “You’re just as bad as them.” And Bucky understood. They hired men who needed work, anyone who needed work and was skilled with cars. It was then that business picked up. They became busier than ever. And they were making enough money that Bucky started stashing some away. 

Was it for a wedding? Maybe.

A house? Maybe that too.

But for right now, as he sat in the driver’s seat of his car, arm wrapped around your shoulder at the drive in he could only be grateful for everything that had happened. Everything that led him here. He could only be in this moment. The moment where in the dark of the car, while Pride and Prejudice played on a big screen two cars ahead, you pressed those rosy lips to his for the very first time. And he knew he was lost to this forever.


	3. 1941

Lips were pressed softly against his. Bucky’s heart was singing. It was a pure tonic. A drug. Something he’d never give up. He’s not a quitter. Lips parting and joining, a wet sound between them as he buried his fingers in your hair, shifting you back against the seat of the car. Thank god for bench seats. A movie neither of you cared about playing in the background. 

They pressed against each other in the small kitchen of your apartment. His hand fisted in your dress at your hips while your hands we’re wrapped around his neck. The edge of the counter digging into your back. Billie Holiday’s ‘God Bless the Child’ playing softly over the radio. Soft moans as his tongue brushed yours, heads titling and breath catching.

In the back office of Barnes & Son’s Autorepair. Blinds half pulled sitting on the couch in the office, his fingers twisted in the ends of your hair, leaning over you. Legs laid over his lap as he pulled you close to him, the tension thick but unbreakable. This forever buildup that will result in both of you parting with shuddering breaths and half lidded eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered against your lips, thumb brushing the skin of your knee through your hose. “What are your plans for today?” It was a rare day off for you, Bucky had been frustrated that he had to work, but you stopping by with a Tupperware container of leftover pisto from last night made up for it. Only slightly. 

You shrugged, picking at the letters on his uniform. ‘Bucky’ it said there. A childhood nickname he’d explained to you before.

“I dunno how it came about,” He had shrugged. “My Pops has been calling me that ever since I could remember.” 

You rolled your head to the side, leaning your cheek on your palm, “Probably groceries, some cleaning.” The heavy winter had just been lifting from New York. You’d opened the windows this morning, letting the chilled air flow through the stuffy apartment for the first time in months. The apartment needed a good wipe down, rugs needed to be beaten, and some fresh linens. 

“I’ll be done around six,” He explained, trying to fix a curl he’d mussed in your prior activity. He raised your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You’re coming for my birthday dinner right?” It was not unknown to Bucky that you specifically planned to come around to the shop on days where his Dad was off nor was he naive that every time he’d tried to bring you home you’d get cold feet.

You’d always offered to bring him around yours, Claudia loved him and he’d fixed the whole apartment so well that he’d probably gained a good five pounds from the torticas de moron that you loved so much. The ones you sent him home with after your Mother had none so kindly stuffed about ten down his throat after feeding him a minimum of two plates at dinner. 

“Engordar a un hombre [Fatten a man],” Claudia said, “El nunca te dejará [He’ll never leave you.]” He laughed as you rolled your eyes, clearing the plates from the table. He watched your hips sway as you wiped some crumbs of the counter, looking at him over your shoulder with a look that made his cock twitch in his slacks. He cleared his throat, standing from the table before helping you wash the dishes. 

It was routine.

What wasn’t routine was you coming by his house for dinner. You never have. You’d been avoiding it actually. And both of you knew it, but Bucky just couldn’t understand why, “My folks are gonna love you, I already know that.” You nod, and Bucky watches your pouty swollen lips pull into a frown. “What are you so worried about dahlin?” Thumb still caressing your knee. It wasn’t the concern of them being progressive that was the issue. The acceptance of minorities had been made clear by George Barnes after he’d integrated his auto shop. That wasn’t the issue here, the issue was,

“What if they don’t like me?” What if you weren’t what they wanted for him? The fact that he’d never brought a girl home before was daunting. What made you so special? Bucky laughed, your face flushing with heat. 

“Of course they’re gonna like you.” His teeth were perfect, how were his teeth so perfect? “I talk about you all the time. They basically know everything there is to know about you.” His other hand met your chin, lifting your head and bringing your lips back to his. So soft. “If it makes you that uncomfortable we can try again another time, but I would really like you to come tonight.” 

He was always like this. So accommodating. He worked everything around you, and that is what made you feel so guilty about this. He would meet you out wherever you wanted, he came to your house for dinner almost every night he could. He worked around your schedule mostly and the pale pink bolt of fabric that sat next to your sewing machine was your latest gift from him. 

“Spring is here, you’ll need some lighter dresses right? The girl at the shop said–” He’d walked into the fabric store not knowing anything about anything and walked out with this beautiful soft pink cotton fabric, enough to make both you and your mother dresses with a little bit left over to make him a shirt as well. 

He always showed up with flowers, the vase of flowers on your kitchen table replaced every time a bloom began to droop. Every leaky faucet and creaking floorboard was repaired as soon as it was noticed and you swore you put on a pound or two from no longer having to walk anywhere you needed to go. 

You’d fallen for him, and fast. The ease at which he’d slipped into your daily life had been almost alarming. It was if he was this missing piece, like he was meant to be there all along. 

“I want to go.” Your hand covered his, now cupping your cheek. “I’m just nervous, it will be alright.” 

The Barnes’ lived in a brownstone in the middle of a pretty nice park of Brooklyn Heights. Just blocks away from Sunset Park, but almost a completely different world. The bubbling in your stomach wouldn’t settle as Bucky parked his car in the street, looking at you reassuringly, 

“C’mon babydoll,” He lifted your knuckles to his lips, “My sisters are a little bit of a pain, but once everyone’s eating it’ll be okay.” 

Steve was already at the house, sitting with Suzy as she wrote out a paper she had due for English class the next day, he was scribbling on his sketchbook beside her as she rambled, 

“I don’t really care for Hemmingway,” Suzy, 13, was telling him, Steve looked up at her from his scribbling, “I heard he’s a drunk.” 

There was a scream from upstairs and two girls, Ginny 17 and Ruth 15, were arguing, “You ripped it!” Ginny yelled, tears in her eyes as she held the bundled fabric in her fists.

“I only ripped it because you wouldn’t let go!” Ruth stomped her foot, “I was only borrowing it!”

“You have to ask to borrow things otherwise it’s stealing!” Ruth made hands for the garment again, Ginny pulling it out of her reach and screaming in frustration, “Mom!” There’s a clatter of pots and pans under the sound of the radio playing in the sitting room where George Barnes was reading a book, ignoring the chaos building in his home. 

Becca skid into sight at the top of the stairs, “Y/N!” She yelled as her sisters disappeared into the kitchen, she lay herself dangerously over the banister before attempting to slide down, Bucky quickly stepped from your side to catch her as she fell over the side, laughing in his arms. “Y/N, I’m so happy to see you!” Becca had gone through a bit of a growth spurt as she neared her eleventh year. The beginnings of puberty shown in the few little dots on her face and the way her attitude was now easily sparked. 

“Let her breathe Becks.” Bucky hung his coat up on the rack, Becca parted from you, rolling her eyes at her brother but still grinning. Bucky moved to take your coat, 

“I couldn’t wait for you to come,” She grinned, taking your hand as Bucky hangs your coat next to his, taking your hat and gloves as well. “Here, come meet my Dad.” 

Bucky Barnes was a spitting image of his Father, right down to the blue of his eyes. If you wanted to know what Bucky would look like in his late forties, George gave you a good idea. Hair stark grey at his temples and salt and pepper throughout, George kept a thick beard. His hands were rough from working with machinery for so long, but the man cleaned up well. He wore wire rimmed glasses that sat low on his nose, ones he peered over to look at you for the first time. A smile crossed his face, “Well Hello!” Jovial. Cheerful. Downright jolly. He was soft in the middle. “You must be Y/N.” The book was discarded and the radio close to him was turned down low as he stood from the armchair. He crossed the room in two quick strides, taking your hand and shaking it softly as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Buck you weren’t kidding,” George smiled at his son, “You’re absolutely stunning.” 

“Thank you,” A flush on your cheeks, Becca was holding your hand to the side. 

George’s hands on your shoulders, he patted them once before turning to his boy, “Have you said hello to Mom yet?” 

“No,” Bucky hugged his Dad, coming back to your side and wrapping an arm around your waist, “We just walked in the door.” The girl’s screaming could be heard from the kitchen, George winced. 

“Best give her a minute to get them to calm down, Steve’s in the dining room with Suzy doing homework. I’m going to go help your Mother.” With that he disappeared down the hall. 

“See?” Bucky whispered to you, “Not bad so far?” The butterflies were still there, it wasn’t George you had to win over, it was Winnie. 

“Do you like to read?” Suzy asked, shifting her papers aside. You shrug, 

“There aren’t many books here in Spanish,” You say, “I have a few from Cuba, but I’m not very good at reading in English.” Suzy smiled, 

“I could help!” She reached into her bag, pulling a book out. Jane Eyre. “This is one of my favorites, you’re speaking really well so I don’t think it’ll be that hard for you to put two and two together maybe-” 

“Suzy.” Steve interrupted, “I’m sure Y/N appreciates the enthusiasm, but I’m sure she’d want to do that another time” She blushed heavily. It was no secret she was harboring a little crush on Steve. Whenever he was at the Barnes’ residence, which was often, she was sure to be stuck to his side. The blond didn’t notice though. He would never notice. 

“She’ll come over again, I’m sure.” Bucky nudged your shoulder, “I hope so anyway.” 

“Did you want to go to Coney Island this weekend?” Steve asked, “I’ve seen plenty of people there before.” People like her. Steve has been searching for places they could all go together. Like a real pal. The three of them had spent some time together, mostly at the park, occasionally at the drive-in and once Bucky and Steve had taken you to that diner down the road almost without issue. 

You could still remember how red Bucky’s face had gotten when that woman had accidentally spilled her milkshake on you. He ”…couldn’t believe it”, he said to you later, “That you just let her do that. You didn’t even–”

“What am I supposed to do?” You asked him heatedly, “Punch her?” Bucky’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel even tighter as he stopped at the light. 

“Y/N, how many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry.” His teeth clenched, “I wasn’t thinking–”

“No,” You sighed heavily, rubbing your forehead, “I’m sorry.” There was a dark stain in the front of your dress, covered by your coat, something you hoped would come out. “There’s just not much I can do.” And you can’t solve problems with your fists. 

“Buck,” Steve spoke from the backseat, “Things will get better.” Eventually. You gave him an appreciative look. There were people out there, some just like the Barnes’ family. Some like Steve who believed in racial equality. For every bad experience you’d had since you came to New York you’ve had an equally good one. 

Two days ago a woman kindly asked you to hold her child while she dug in her purse for some change at a food cart. The sweet little thing cooing in your arms as she said, “I love your lipstick,” The harlot red some people called it, “I’ve been looking for a shade just like it, but my husband isn’t keen on me spending so much on makeup.” She was sweet, blonde, a couple years older than you are. 

“You should do whatever makes you happy,” You smiled, the baby’s pudgy hands coming to grip a strand of your hair. A gentle tug, a harsh tug, and the blonde was apologizing. You gently worked the hair from between the cherub’s fingers, “She’s fine.” You laughed, “That’s what babies do.” 

And the men at Barnes & Son Auto Repair were always so courteous and nice to you. Bucky seemed to only remember the bad things, but that’s life isn’t it? 

Bucky was looking at you with hope now, “I’d love to.” Steve grinned, looking at his friend. 

“I wanna go to Coney Island.” Becca whined to her brother, gripping his arm. 

“Me too.” Suzy shifted down in her seat, agreeing softly. Bucky sighed heavily, 

“Let me ask Ma, see what she says.” 

“Ask me what?” Winifred Barnes was a sight. The four Barnes daughters were beautiful, so she had to be too. And she was. Her hair in a polished chignon, green eyes, and a beautiful green velvet number that made you feel like you were very under dressed. 

“She likes company,” Bucky will explain to you later, “That’s just how she always dresses.”

Her nails were perfectly lacquered in a soft nude color and her heels matched perfectly. A single strand of pearls lay around her neck. A perfect figure you couldn’t believe birthed five children, but here she was. The perfect American wife. The one you see in adverts and who coo over commercials about what dish soap they prefer. 

“Oh!” Her peachy lips grinned, “No one told me you’d arrived.” Her hand went to pat the side of her hair and she removed the white apron from her front, laying it over the back of the chair as you stood to politely greet her. Her hands gently grasped yours, soft, the kind of soft you get from not having to work a day in your life. “Let me get a look at you.” And she stepped back, taking you in. 

You’d felt a little uncomfortable, nervous. The dress you were wearing was a bit older, but nice, it buttoned down the front, it had little blue birds on the white fabric. Your shoes were a little worse for wear. The scuffed black kitten heels you’d been trying to get an entire life out of. 

“You really are a gorgeous thing.” She cooed lovingly, looking at her son she glared, “James why haven’t you gone and changed?” He pushed back his chair and stood, 

“Sorry Ma,” A kiss to her cheek, a playful look to you and he disappeared upstairs. 

“Here,” She smiled at you, “Come help me in the kitchen.” It was very organized, a practiced orchestration of dishes and side dishes, “James’ favorites.” She said, Winnie must have been cooking all day. Brisket, mashed potatoes, string beans, a whole roasted chicken with rosemary and a garlic butter sauce, sweet corn, and freshly baked dinner rolls. An iced pound cake sat to the side, nineteen candles jammed into it. “You can thank Becca for that,” she had explained laughing. 

Their house was noisy, crowded for the space they had. The four girls were fighting almost constantly, playfully bickering over who was going to get the leg of the chicken, Bucky because it’s his birthday and Ginny for being the oldest, and who was better at singing also came up at the table causing the two youngest girls to belt out what they could remember of I’m Yours. 

Steve and Bucky talked about what Howard Stark’s latest invention had been and news of the Stark Expo he was trying to put on next year, while both Winnie and George asked you about the factory you worked at and how Bucky had told them you make all of your own dresses. 

“You must be very talented,” Winne motioned towards your dress, “It’s very beautiful.” 

“Are you okay?” Bucky whispered, his hand gripping yours in your lap. He had a little mashed potato on the corner of his lip that you wiped with your napkin. 

“I’m okay.” There were some words that you’d never heard before that Bucky had translated for you, but the girls seemed eager to learn some words in Spanish as well. The discussion of language breaching the table as Winnie disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with the fire hazard of a cake and a silence before the tune of Happy Birthday was sung. Bucky’s hand not leaving yours as Becca yelled, 

“Make a wish!” And his candles were blown out. You didn’t know if you belonged here, in this world. It had always been you and your Mom and you’d always been poor. This house, these sisters, this family. You doubted they’d ever had empty stomachs. The girls had talked about buying new dresses for Spring. They begged George for money so they could go over to Neiman Marcus and go shopping. And he’d given it to them. 

They had everything they needed, and things they wanted. It made sense how Bucky was kind of naive in some ways. Sometimes he couldn’t understand why you weren’t able to just do certain things, but he was getting better about it. Steve would knock some common sense into him from time to time. 

He looked so happy right now, it was hard to say anything about how you were feeling. 

Bucky pressed his lips to yours in the darkness of his car, hand cupping your cheek. “I’m so glad you came babydoll.” His mouth was sweet, sugary from the two slices of cake he’d eaten. His tongue brushed yours and a heat developed in your core. He whispered against your lips, “I’m gonna take you to Coney Island,” Kiss, “And I’m gonna win you a teddy bear,” Kiss, soft moan, “And then I’m gonna take you on the ferris wheel,” Slower kiss, “And I’m gonna kiss you when we get to the top.” His fingers sunk into your hair, “Cause you’re so damn sweet.” 

“Happy Birthday James.” You whispered against his lips, eyes half lidded looking at him. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before exiting the car, walking around to open your door and help you out. Stealing another kiss as he shut the car door behind you. 

Mateo was standing in the hallway when you’d reached your door. The man hadn’t given you much trouble after the night at the club. Your Mother had talked to him once about leaving you alone, about how she didn’t like the way he would grab you sometimes. He left seething and every time he’d seen James from then on he had a steady glare and a hard grip on whatever he was holding. 

“Your Mother needs you.” Was all he bit, before disappearing into his apartment and slamming the door. You wished Bucky hadn’t left. But he’d seen you to the door of the building, stealing one last kiss before skipping back down the stairs. You wish he hadn’t left. 

The room was still when you’d entered the apartment, where radio was usually always playing it sat silent in the corner. You dropped your house keys on the kitchenette, slipping your coat off your shoulders as a heavy cough sounded from your Mother’s room. “Mama?” You called, “Estás bien? [Are you alright]?” The sound of your heels clicking was so loud it was almost deafening as you walked down the hall, she was laying there in bed, pale as a sheet. A pile of used rags next to her, and they were covered in blood. You gasp, covering your mouth at her sweaty pallor. 

What were you supposed to do now?

You stopped going to the shop. Bucky would come by the apartment and you would tearfully tell him it wasn’t a good time. Your Mother was sick and there was nothing Bucky could do to make it better. His heart ached with the sudden distance. She’d been sick for a while apparently, and she hid it well. He could only hope you wouldn’t come down with the ailment as well. 

He’d asked his family Doctor to stop by, the one that had been at his own birth. It was lung cancer, and a late stage. It was only a matter of time. Bucky began dropping off groceries, you’d woefully sat on the step of the apartment building with him for a few minutes thanking him and saying, “What do I do without her?” Because you both knew it was coming, and soon. 

“I’m so sorry dahlin.” His arm around your shoulders. He could remember when Sarah died. Steve had been a mess, trying to be strong, level headed about it. But now the things Claudia had been telling him made sense, 

“La amas? [You love her?]” She’d asked him once as he watched you sway side to side to the radio, dusting a picture frame. 

“I do.” He remembers his heart being warm, smiling. 

“Prométeme que cuidarás de ella. [Promise me that you’ll take care of her.]” Of course he would take care of you. You were everything. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Bueno.” She shuffled around in the kitchen, repeating, “Good.”

She knew. She knew she was dying and did nothing. There was no cure. She complained about poking and prodding, the Doctors who would just destroy her life faster than she could live it. She decided against treatment. She decided against telling you until she had to. Until she couldn’t hide it anymore. 

Bucky didn’t know what to say, but Steve did. 

“When my Ma died it was really hard, and it’s going to be really hard.” They were at your kitchen table, a bowl of ropa veija in front of the three of you, mostly untouched but still steaming. “But you’re strong, and she’ll want you to be strong.” His hand lay on yours comfortingly. “My Ma told me women are survivors and much better than men at pulling themselves together and pushing against all odds.” And you’ll survive. You will.

Her last words are a gentle affirmation. “Eres el amor de mi vida. [You are the love of my life.]” Her chapped lips pressing against your hands, weeping eyes not being able to focus as her breath rattled and then stopped all together. 

Her funeral was small, a couple of men and women from the neighborhood, you, Steve, and the Barnes family. George Barnes bought a plot in the cemetery for her and paid for the casket himself. “It’s the least we can do.” And you were grateful, because you wouldn’t have been able to afford it. Bucky held your hand tightly in his grip, pressing a kiss to your temple as they lowered your Mother’s casket into the ground. 

The six of them were now shoved into your tiny apartment, the girls helping their Mother roll out dough and fix dinner in the small kitchen, George and Bucky were stripping the bed and Steve had just gotten back from starting a load of laundry in the basement. You didn’t know what to do, sitting out on the fire escape, blankly watching the cars pass by on the street below. 

“Hey honey.” Winnie Barnes leaned out the window, pulling one leg up and then another to scoot herself outside. It would look almost ridiculous if she hadn’t been so put together. She gently pulled you into her chest, letting you wrap your arms around her tightly, crying into her shoulder. It was quiet for a beat, then another, then she said, “We have a guest room if you want to stop by, ever.” Hand soothingly rubbing up and down your back. “James aside, if you don’t want to be alone.” 

You doubted you’d take them up on their offer, but “Thank you,” You sniffled into her shoulder, “Thank you.” 

Comfort food. That’s what they’d made. A large pot of beef stew you’d eat on for almost a week. Rolls, pie. You were okay throughout dinner, you ate some, but your appetite hadn’t fully returned yet. And Bucky didn’t leave you. 

After dinner was put away and the family left, the two of you lay in the dark above the covers, staring at each other. This was very improper. Some say it would ruin your reputation. But at that moment you just really didn’t want to be alone. His hand outstretched and softly holding yours, the comfort of him just being there. 

“I don’t have to leave,” He whispered, “But if you don’t want me here I understand.” You gripped his hand a little harder and he pulled you closer to him, letting your head lay on his chest as he pulled you in tight. Eyes dry and puffy from crying all day. “I love you babydoll.” A kiss to your hand while he stared at the ceiling. 

“I love you too.” Voice watery, spoken into his chest. 

Life goes on. Life went on. The apartment was just emptier. Quieter. Lonelier. Your Mother had done everything for you. She created this life. She brought you to America knowing you’d have a better life here than you did in Cuba. More opportunity. And if you hadn’t came to New York you would have never met Bucky. 

Sweet, gentle, caring Bucky who brought you groceries every week now. He stayed for dinner every night. Sometimes he would even try his hand at cooking, as unpracticed as he was. He started doing laundry on days where you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. He cleaned on days you couldn’t get out of bed. 

He bought you new shoes when your old ones began ripping up at the soles, “You have to take care of yourself dahlin, you need a new pair of shoes.” He had argued with you about it until he decided to just go get you a pair himself. He knew you were struggling to pay for this apartment and every time he brought groceries, every time he’d brought you some new fabric, and every time he’d slip money into your purse you would argue, but he would always win. 

He just wanted to help. And he did. Wherever he could. 

Arms wrapped around your waist from behind as you stirred a pot of rice. Lips pressed against your neck as he sung softly in your ear, Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered. 

I’m wild again

Beguiled again

A simpering, whimpering child again

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I

“I love you.” You whispered, placing a hand over his on your stomach. “So much.” He let out a heavy breath,

“Marry me.” Your stirring halted, head turning to look at his flushed cheeks. 

“James…”

“I’m serious.” He stepped back, bringing you to face him in his arms, swaying you side to side. “Be my wife,” A gentle kiss against your lips, then his blue eyes searching yours, “You’re so smart, so beautiful,” Another kiss, “I wanna be with you, I told you that on our first date.” He did. “I don’t have a ring or nothin’ yet, but just say the word and I’ll have one by lunchtime tomorrow.” Fingers twisting in your hair as he tilted your face. “I love you.” A gentle kiss, tongue brushing yours, fingers entwined in your hair, scratching your scalp. You moaned into his mouth, 

“Ask me again.” He parted from you, pressing a kiss to your hand as he sunk down to one knee in your small kitchenette. 

“Y/N,” Your hand held to his cheek, “You are the most caring, beautiful, intelligent woman I’ve ever met. I knew from the moment I saw you standing outside of the corner store that I would marry you. I love you, and I want to love you for the rest of my life. Everything I do and everything I will do will be to give you everything you ever wanted. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” You blinked, teary eyed, nodding. 

“Yes.” 

“It is no joke, this is a real war.” Spilled over the speakers of the radio in the Barnes’ living room. Pearl Harbor had just been bombed. 

It was a quiet Sunday morning until that point. At lunch the family was sitting down to, the entirety of the Barnes clan, you and Steve. You’d just gotten back from church, George turning the radio on to have some background noise when the broadcast came on again. The United States were now part of the war. Troops were going to start being sent out any day now. 

Steve and Bucky shared a look and the three men shut the doors to the parlor. Your fiance avoiding your eyes. Winnie lay a hand on your shoulder, turning you back into the kitchen as your heart dropped out of your chest. 

“You’re not going.” You said sternly. “No.” Bucky sighed, running his fingers through his hair. 

“You don’t understand dahlin, I have to go.” His hands reached for yours and you backed away out of reach. 

“No, you don’t have to go.” You spat. “You want to go.” 

“Stevie isn’t going to be able to, both of our Pops fought in the 107th and I have to continue on. This is for us, I’ll still be sending checks–”

“You think I want money?” You couldn’t help it, you started to cry. “I want you, here. With me.” He ran over to you, pulling you into his chest. 

“Listen, baby.” A kiss pressed against your hair, “It’ll be fine.” 

“It won’t.” You hiccuped, “Men die in war every day, James.” 

“I’ll be fine.” You pushed your hands against his chest, trying to get away. 

“No, you won’t be.” He held you tighter, “You’re leaving me.” Bucky let out a heavy sigh, beginning to rock the both of you side to side.

“Not forever,” He whispered, “Only for a little bit. I have to serve my country, to keep my family safe.” He moved to cup your cheek, tilting your teary eyes up to meet his, pressing a kiss to each of your cheeks before pressing his mouth to yours. “They bomb Pearl Harbor, who’s to say they won’t bomb New York, huh? Gotta keep them off our shores.” 

“James,” His face was serious, determined. There was no talking him out of this. This legacy he needed to fulfil. A war. A stupid fucking war. Wars gave a promise of work and promotion, they gave young boys like him good money to go out and put their lives on the line for men who sat in offices and just pointed fingers. It chewed young men up and spat them back out, you’ve seen it before. And you were going to lay witness to it again.

“There are people over there, innocent people,” He said softly, “Being persecuted for being who they are.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, scratching the nape of your neck with his blunt fingernails, “I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn’t fight to free them.” You sighed, closing your eyes and looking down at his chest. 

“I just lost her, James.” You hiccup, “I can’t lose you too.” Silence filled the apartment for a moment, the gentle rocking side to side continued on before he responded, 

“You’re not going to.”


	4. 1942

“She’ll be taken care of.” Bucky said, straightening his bowtie, “If I die out there.” Steve sucked in his teeth. 

“Don’t say stuff like that.” Steve glared at him, “You’re not going to die out there.” Bucky had to be rational. There was a risk. Men die every day in war. And maybe it was selfish for him to ask you to marry him so soon after the death of your Mother but he knew war was brewing, and he knew he would be going. At least this way he could send his checks home to you, he could make sure you’re taken care of if he doesn’t make it home. And that’s what mattered. 

The love for you that he felt was unreal. He knew he was going to marry you, and it felt right. This day felt right. He wouldn’t change it for the world, but he only hoped you were feeling the same way. 

“I have to be realistic Stevie.” He stepped away from the mirror, turning towards his friend. “If anything happens to me, I need you to take care of her for me.” 

“I’m gonna enlist too.” Steve said, “I’ll be over there with you.” Bucky looked softly on his friend. 

“Steve, I don’t think they’re going to let you.” There was a rattle in his chest right now, the early spring, flowers just freshly budding. Steve was just shaking a cold. He steeled Bucky with a glare.

“I’m gonna do my part. You can’t change my mind.” It was a pointless argument. Bucky knew that anyone in their right mind would take one look at Steve and immediately deny him. The stubborn bastard was just going to keep trying. 

“You ready?” George Barnes asked, entering the room and straightening his tie. The two boys instantly disregarded the last conversation. Tension leaving the room as they knew it would be picked back up at a later date. There was one thing to focus on and one thing only. 

Bucky Barnes was getting married. 

He stood in the aisle of the church. The same church he’d been christened in about twenty years earlier. There weren’t many people here to be fair. Three of sisters sat beside his Mother in the pews, Steve stood beside him. And a couple of the girls he knew you worked with sat on your side as well. An older woman with a cane in the front. He’d seen you talking closely with her once or twice. A woman from your building he’d helped with her groceries just last week. A friend of your Mother’s.

It had taken a little work, convincing the priest to marry the two of you. When first approaching the Father having not seen him since he read your Mother her last rites, seeing him speak at her funeral, he struggled with whether or not he would allow your union. But finally settled on, “If your union be blessed, it shall be blessed by God.” 

He agreed to a small ceremony. No announcement. Not so certain members of the community wouldn’t be pounding on the rectory door. A small ceremony in the middle of the work week, quick. As quick as possible. 

He stood behind Bucky now, bible in hand. The small older woman who usually played the organ had been dismissed. Ginny was going to play the church piano as you made your walk down the aisle. Your arm in George’s. 

The piano began, the tinkling keys chiming through the wide open space, echoing off the high ceilings. The first sight of you took his breath away, eyes immediately watering. 

If Bucky could ever freeze a moment in time it would be right now. The thin veil shrouding your face, lips void of their usual victory red lipstick in a soft blush. The curve of your jaw, the corners of your lips upturned. Your dark lashes framing your deep brown eyes. Your hair swept from your face loosely curled, pinned in a bun at the nape of your neck. 

The dress you’d made yourself. The sweet white fabric was bought for you by his Mother as a gift. The satin reaching your knees. A splurge by him on some white peep toe heels that set his loins on fire.

His hands were shaking. Not out of nervousness, but excitement. 

Steve stood to his left as Becca settled across from him, not even realizing your shoes were trodding through the petals she just strewed down the aisle as you walked. 

You stopped in front of him and Bucky grew lightheaded as you peered up at him through your lashes.

Your hand met his, soft. He helped you up the three steps to stand in front of the altar. The good Father read from the Bible, and the two of you knelt before him as you took communion. 

Rings were exchanged to accelerated heartbeats. And a soft kiss exchanged at the end. 

“Hello Mrs. Barnes.” He whispered against your lips.

“Hello Mr. Barnes.” 

You’d bought a new bed for the apartment, you couldn’t bare to lay on the mattress your Mother died on. It was tossed before her body had even been in the ground. The new bedroom is a little lighter, the bundle of dried peonies from the early days hanging in a bouquet on the wall. An empty space where you’ll hang your wedding photo. 

It seems almost suffocating now. Bucky having swept you off your feet to carry you over the threshold, laughing and kissing you softly, the two of you toeing your shoes off to slow dance in the living room, drunk off champagne. 

His fingers twisted in the fabric at your hips as he chased your lips. Meeting over and over in an intense embrace. His fingers moved to toy with the buttons on the back of your dress, eyes half lidded starting at him as the two of you caught your breath. Your back met the wall in the hallway, his form covering yours, hips pressed together. The hard length of him throbbing in his trousers. 

Heart racing you turned and let him pull the buttons from the loops, the satiny white fabric coming to pool at your feet. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, brushing the thick curls out of his path. 

Your hearts were racing. The apartment suddenly so quiet, just the heavy panting breaths and the wet sound of your lips meeting. His thumbs brushed over your nipples through your brassiere. The white silky fabric over your hips held the nude hose on your thighs. His fingers dipping to play with the stay-ups. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered, pressing his lips to the skin below your ear. His bowtie hung loose around his neck, his shirt had two buttons undone, suspenders forgotten, pants low on his hips. You nod, shivering in excitement. His lips meet yours once more, walking you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees meeting the soft surface. You fell softly onto your back, Bucky’s half lidded eyes taking your body in as he slipped his shirt from his shoulders, toeing off his socks. 

“Te quiero [I love you].” Was whispered in the room as he shifted your slip from your body, tossing it behind him. Your brassiere quickly tossed as well, his calloused hands coming to lay under your breasts. Nipples pebbled in the cold air, his eyes stuck on yours as his pink tongue peeked from his lips. The cool muscle sent a shiver down your spine, a thrumming in your core as he took your rosy tan nipple into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the first true sexual contact the two of you have had. 

In those dark moments, in the front seat of his car, in the back office of the shop, in the kitchen after washing the dishes. Neither of you had dared. His fingers would twist in your skirt, brush against your calves. Breathy moans exchanged between kisses, but Bucky wouldn’t dare move further than that. Not until now. 

Your stay-ups were removed, deft fingers slipping your hose down your leg, the soft press of his lips following the path of exposed skin. Down one leg, then the other. His pants were discarded, the heavy weight of him against your thigh through his boxer shorts as his fingers tangled into your hair, slipping the pins loose. Your hands trembling on his lower back, the muscles shifting underneath your fingertips. 

“Eres tan hermosa. [You’re so beautiful].” He mumbled against your throat, trailing his lips back down your body to the top of your silk and lace, covering your last bit of modesty. His blue eyes met yours, blush pink lips bitten between his teeth as he dipped his fingers into your hips, pressing his face against the junction between your thighs. Your face flushed as he took a steady inhale. His tongue coming out to lap against the fabric. Once. Your fists clenching at your sides. Thighs trembling. 

“James…” Your breath hitching as he pulled the last scrap of fabric from your body. 

“Y/N…” He kissed your hip, “Let me do this.” His hands found your thighs, pressing them up against your chest, your face flushing with heat. Eyes unable to meet his. You lay an arm across your face. Nervously unable to look as his cool breath met your labia. His fingers parting your lips and that strong, soft muscle coming to lap at your entrance for the very first time. 

Your breath caught in your chest, “Tell me what feels good.” His tongue fumbling, searching for a spot he’d been told about, nervous and shaking. Your hips bucked against his face as he found it. The little bundle of nerves that made you release a moan from deep in your throat. His cock twitched in his shorts, rubbing it against the bed to try to release some of the pressure he was currently feeling. 

You’ve touched yourself before, but it never felt like this. This felt so much better. The soft muscle of his tongue lapping at the little bundle of nerves, a wet sound filling the room. An obscene wet sound. Your moans increase as the pleasure builds. Chasing your release against his face. His arms circled your thighs as you became breathless. Back arching as you came on his tongue, a moan hummed against your clit as you grabbed your breasts, hips bucking wildly as you rode out your orgasm. Panting with release. 

The room quieted as you reveled in a glow. Bucky shifted back onto his knees between your legs, the head of his cock poking from his waistband, a bead of precum shining on the tip. His hands massaged your trembling thighs before slipping his boxers off of his hips, the heavy weight of him pressed against your body, hands cradling your head as he kissed you. The tang of you heavy on his lips. 

“I love you.” You whispered against his lips as the tip of his dick met your entrance. Knees shifted around his hips, his hand met the mattress next to your head, eyes looking down long enough for him to watch as his head disappeared inside you. His eyes looking back into yours, 

“I love you too.” Your wet channel gave way easily to him, a slight burn from the stretch, neither of you breathing until he was fully seated inside of you. You couldn’t look away from one another as he stilled. His fingers laced into yours, breaths mingling, eyes watery. His hips shifted back, before slowly meeting yours. His teeth tugged on your bottom lip as he set rhythm. 

Soft moans soon filled the room. Heavy breathing, the wet sound of your body giving into his. It didn’t last long, your first time. His first time. His hips stuttering against yours soon after they’d met for the first time. His release spilling inside of you as his head found your shoulder. The two of you lay connected for a minute before Bucky rolled to the side, pulling you tightly against his chest, fingers twisted in your hair. 

“The next time will be longer,” A blush on his cheeks, “I promise.” 

The next morning, when the first rays of the sun met the corners of the apartment, Bucky’s arm wrapped around your shoulder as his hips met yours, your leg pulled over his hip as you lay facing each other. One hand kneading your ass as he ground your clit against his pubic bone, your fingers slipping between you to bring yourself over the edge, head tossing back moaning as he released into you for the third time that night. 

“Te quiero.” Again. And Again. 

It was a few months later. Just a few months into your marriage. He came home in uniform. And your heart stopped. He’d entered the home, an apology of flowers in his hand, hat held at his side. Your back had been to him, humming as you pressed together dough around the spiced meat mixture you’d marinated the night before. 

Bucky’s heart dropped as he realized you were making him lunches for the week. Lunches he wouldn’t be eating. He should have told you, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to see you cry. But it couldn’t be helped. 

“My love.” He spoke from the doorway, and when you turned to him he could see your face immediately fall, eyes beginning to shine with tears. “I’m so sorry.” He watched you toss the small pastry onto the counter top, turning from him. “Dahlin’ please.” 

“Don’t call me that.” You wiped your hands on a dish towel. The flowers were laid on the kitchen table, “When are you leaving me?” His heart dropped in his chest, 

“I’m shipping out tomorrow.” A loud clang as you dropped the pan you were holding. He flinched. 

“Mañana?” He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t see you cry. Your voice was cracking, “How long have you known?” His hands met your shoulders, but you shrugged them off, moving out of reach. 

“They just gave me my orders today.” A sheet of paper on the kitchen table, one he’d just put there. His tag number and division. “Please don’t do this babydoll.” Your eyes were firey, overflowing with anger as you picked up the paper, only being able to understand a few words there. 

“War ruins people James.” He could feel his eyes sting, tears building at the despair in your voice. “My Father, when I was a child…” You sunk down at the kitchen table, “He fought in the rebellion.” Your eyes scanning the paper trying to make sense of it, “The Cuban military had been killing Afro-Cubans, there’d been a massacre. A few years before I was born. My father fought with Estenoz against the Cuban Army but they failed.” Your watery eyes met his. “He was never the same. My Mother became pregnant with me a few years later but… he killed himself before I was ever born.” Bottom lip trembling. 

Bucky sunk down to his knees in front of you, hands gently grasping yours, “I can’t stand by and let the Nazi’s get away with what they’re doing.” His jaw clenched, before he brought your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles, “They’re saying that people are being kept in camps, being tortured, killed. Who would I be if I didn’t do what I could to stop them?” 

“I don’t want you to go.” The small plea broke his heart. He didn’t want to do this to you. He didn’t want to leave you. But there was an obligation. His Father fought in the last war. His Grandfather fought in the Civil War. His Great-Great Grandfather fought in the Revolutionary War. They all came home, and so will he. But just in case he didn’t…

“Steve will be here.” He kissed the inside of your wrists, “He’ll keep you company until I get back.” If he gets back. You shake your head, eyes spilling over with tears. “Amor de mi vida,” He kissed your knuckles, bringing your hands to his shoulders, burying his face in your stomach. “This is for us, for our future.” Mumbled into the fabric of the cotton apron detailed with hand stitched little pies and cakes you’d worked on while listening to the radio at night. 

What future? 

“There is no future if you’re gone.” You lifted his face to yours. His eyes wet with tears. What more could be said? There was a stalemate. But you knew he had to go. You knew as soon as the news report about the attack on Pearl Harbor that you’d be losing him. It made your heart ache. 

That night the two of you couldn’t get close enough. 

The hot breath, whispered sighs. The rocking of his body against yours, fingers intertwined and your breasts pressed against his chest, legs wrapped around each others as you met over and over in a loving sweet crescendo. The shaky breaths of settling after, your lips met the skin of his shoulder. 

You’d gone to the Stark Expo. 

Steve had disappeared somewhere in the night. Bucky shrugging and saying not to worry about it, that Steve said he’d be by for breakfast tomorrow before Bucky left you. Before he left both of you. 

“I’m fine,” Winnie sighed, watery and obviously not fine, “I’m alright.” The Barnes household was tense this morning. A goodbye from all that no one knew if it would be their last or not. Bucky was dressed in his uniform sans hat, drinking coffee with George at the dining table. The girls chattering about in the kitchen, setting the table, bringing out plates. But even their enthusiasm was stunted by the knowledge that Bucky had to be at the dock in an hour and a half. 

His hand gripped yours under the table. His left in your right. His thumb tracing a soothing pattern over the back of your hand. 

“Everyday Buck.” Ginny said, “We’re expecting a letter everyday.” Becca was quietly picking at the scrambled eggs on her plate. Suzy and Ruth had been taking turns hugging their brother all morning. 

“I’ll do my best Gin.” Steve hadn’t showed. Bucky was trying not to feel too down about it. 

“Maybe he’s feeling down about being rejected again yesterday.” George reasoned. Maybe. Bucky sighed, clearly upset with his friend’s absence. You tighten your grip reassuringly and he gives you a tight smile. 

“That’s probably it.” Bucky put a slice of pancake into his mouth, a little syrup dribbled onto his chin. You took your napkin, licking the corner before wiping the sticky substance from his face. 

“It’s hard for him.” You assure Bucky, “He’ll miss you.” 

“We’ll all miss you.” Becca grumbled from across the table. It wasn’t a secret that Becca was angry with Bucky. She hadn’t talked to him much since the two of you had gone for dinner a couple weeks beforehand and he talked about enlisting. The cold shoulder she had perfected over the years, her stubbornness was the same as Bucky’s. She could go on forever. 

Bucky sighed, smiling at his youngest sister. “I’ll miss you the most Becks.” You smile softly, the little girl’s watering eyes wiped before they could spill. 

The docks were busy. Thousands of soldiers dispatched, ready to fight. The Barnes family said their goodbyes, you gave them their time. The girls sobbing, Winnie comforting them as George and Bucky had one last moment together as Father and Son. A promise of “I’ll see you soon, you better write.” 

The affection George Barnes had for his family was unparalleled. In a time where men didn’t show emotion, they were distant, moody, belt welding masters of the house. George Barnes was a sweet man who always made time for his children. Doted on his wife. The girls with every new dress they bought would model them for their father and he would appreciate a detail. “I really like that bow, or that color green really suits you.” 

“We’ll keep an eye on her son.” He whispered to his boy, his eyes watering, “Do me a favor.” His hand gripping Bucky’s shoulder tight, “Don’t be a hero.” Bucky’s eyes widened with the statement. “I know you, and I know you want to fight for what is right and what you believe in but trust me when I say this…” A somber tone in his voice, “Men will die around you, people you grow to care about, men you love, civilians you wish you could have saved.” George began to cry, wiping the tears before they were dripping from his chin, “Don’t do anything that you know will get you killed, you’ve got a wife and family to come home to. You hear me?” 

“Yeah Pops, I hear you.” Bucky was brought in for a hug. The barreled chest of his father gave him some comfort for his shaky nerves. George Barnes was a man that had seen war. The quiet nights, the ones he wouldn’t talk about. Those nights Bucky knew he would be coming home with. But George Barnes was a good man. He took care of his family, he was a good father. And Bucky was lucky for that. 

“Hi.” You breathed, eyes already watering. Bucky frowned, holding his arms out for you. 

“Oh dahlin, don’t cry sweetheart.” The two of you rocking back and forth. His family partially blocked you from view in this secluded corner of the docks. “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“I love you,” So soft and sweet against your lips. The memory of last night and this morning, the longing to be close again. A picture of you was stuffed into his journal. A small photo of your wedding picture was in his wallet. 

“I love you too dahlin,” His hooded eyes gazing into yours, “I’ll be back before you know it.” You nod, the tears slipping freely down your cheeks to be caught by his fingers, gripping your jaw and bringing your lips back to his again. A long soft languid kiss, a kiss goodbye. 

“Come home to me Barnes.” He nods, kissing you one last time. 

“There’s no one on this earth that could take me away from you,” He cooed, “Especially not Adolf Hitler.” 

You saw him on the deck of the ship. Hand waving among men, blowing you a kiss as the horn cut through the air and the ship left dock. You couldn’t move. Heart racing and sweaty palms until the ship disappeared. Winnie’s hands met your arms, smoothing down the blue velvet dress you were wearing. You fiddled with the buttons on the front, 

“We have to go now honey.” You nod, eyes still staring out at the horizon, wishing the ship back.


	5. 1943

The apartment was quiet. Eerily so. The steady drip from the faucet that Bucky hadn’t gotten around to fixing, the commotion from the street below. All of it muffled behind the walls of your bedroom. Your marital bed with the thick duvet, fingers tracing the empty sheets beside you. The faint smell of his aftershave still on the pillow. You’d stopped crying days ago, but this space for the first time was empty. 

Bucky filled the place in this little apartment where your Mother had been before. This was the first time in your life you were truly alone. No one to take care of, no one to wrap yourself around to take comfort. Alone. 

But not really. 

“We should go to the shore.” Winnie said over breakfast. The Barnes household wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t lonely. But there was an empty spot at the table. “We could go up to the Adirondacks. Rent a cabin?” George hummed in agreement. 

“Here,” Suzy, “So what would you like to write?” The small desk crammed in between her bed and Becca’s. Sheets of paper laid out and an envelope already addressed to James Barnes of the 107th. You tugged your bottom lip through your teeth, unsure of what to write. 

You’d written him a letter before, very painstakingly, back when you’d first started dating. And you’d written him many letters since he left with the help of Suzy, but they’re all so superficial. You talked about the weather, about a new fabric you’d gotten with his Mother. You told him how Steve had written to you saying he was alright, but you hadn’t seen him since the Stark Expo, but he swore to visit soon. 

You told him that you missed him every minute of every day, but you didn’t tell him that you missed him wrapping his arms around your waist and singing love songs softly into your ear. You didn’t tell him that you missed those early morning kisses, sleepy and gentle. You didn’t tell him that you missed how he would playfully tug on your hair or how he would always bring you new flowers. You didn’t say that you missed how he would pluck one from the bouquet and place it behind your ear. You didn’t say that your body longed for his. The fire set in your core that made you long for one more time, just one more before he left. 

You couldn’t. Not when Suzy was helping you write the letters. 

“Tell him we are going on vacation.” You said. She handed you a pen, and taught you how to spell out the words. Eventually you’ll be able to do it on your own. You’ll tell him then. 

“It’s so great.” Becca said from the back seat. “We all get to wear pants and I’ll show you the tree I love to climb, and then we can go swimming in the lake, and then…” Her voice rambled on and on. You sat in the passenger seat, Ginny next to you driving. Winnie and George were just ahead of you, toting Ruth and Suzy. “I wish Bucky was here.” She mumbled, almost to herself. Ginny’s hands noticeably tightened on the wheel. 

“Me too.” You agreed, smiling on the now thirteen year old girl. Her face freckled, pimples had broken out on her forehead from her bangs, but it was just family. Winnie pinned them off her forehead for the week, telling her that it would help them go away. 

Bucky’s absence was felt, but was somewhat soothed by the little package of letters that had just arrived the day before. One for Winnie, George, Ginny, Ruth, and Suzy. Two for Becca. And ten, ten letters for you. 

He’d just finished basic training. They’d given him the letters they had withheld during the weeks before they took him out to Italy. The front lines, Suzy read to you. It made your stomach drop and your hands shake. The war was in Italy right now, the allies trying to take back the country from Nazi control. 

In the margins of his letters were hastily scribbled flowers. Some had little poems, a book one soldier kept with him of love poems. One his girl had given him. One letter just had I love you written over and over a border on a letter that explained what he saw out there. The horrors of bombs going off in the middle of stone paved streets. Businesses that would never recover having their windows blown out. 

The first death he ever saw happened that first week. He wrote about how the man who died just had a baby girl. They named her Judy. 

Your hand rubbed Suzy’s back as she read that part. Her eyes sad, wet with tears for the passion in which Bucky said he couldn’t let this man’s death be in vain. 

Winnie read you some letters too. Helping you sound out the words, on the porch of the cabin, the girl’s and their Father hanging up the tire swing, the cobwebs just swept from the house. A glass of wine in front of you as the love of your life’s Mother helped you read about how hard it was for Bucky to fall asleep without you. How the beds were so hard. He slept on the floor for the first time, aside from when one of the girls had nightmares. How he would lay on the floor next to their beds and talk to them until they fell back asleep, not leaving just in case they woke up and he wasn’t there. 

“I never knew he did that.” Winnie smiled, “Oh goodness.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair, looking out on her girls and taking a sip of wine. “I never knew he did that.”

He described how beautiful some parts of the city were. Parts where war hasn’t reached. He talked about how they landed on the beaches of Sicily first and worked their way up. There was a small town, just outside of Rome they passed. It was as if nothing happened. The sleepy little town had been untouched by this war. He said he felt guilty walking through it. Like the mud on his boots was going to defile the cobblestones. Like it was bringing the war to disrupt the lives of these people who just wanted to keep on living. 

I’m sorry, he kept writing, I’m sorry I had to leave. He said if he wasn’t part of the solution he’d just be part of the problem. The denial that it was happening. And he saw it happening. He talked about a camp they’d found. Ferramonti di Tarsia, he said. They were planning on liberating the camp, but they hadn’t figured out what to do yet. How to proceed. 

That was the discussion at dinner. 

The war. 

Fresh fish that George and Ruth had gone out this morning and caught lay filet on the table, vegetables, roasted potatoes and white wine. 

“The government isn’t saying much about it.” Winnie said, the United States government. Everyone knew that there was Jewish prosecution over there, but no one knew it was like this. 

It wasn’t long after that newspapers started talking about them. Concentration Camps, POW camps. The real image of what exactly was going on in Europe. 

You wrote to him, through Suzy, through Winnie. An attempt at comfort, and attempt to sympathize with the shedding of his innocence as he viewed how hard and cruel the world could truly be. 

I don’t understand, he wrote, how someone could do this to another person. 

The cruelty in which these people were treated, just for having different beliefs, just being different people, different values, while at the same time being very much the same as everyone else. 

It was a somber dinner. 

It was on a boat in the middle of the lake that George Barnes taught you to fish. 

“I always enjoy getting away.” He said, “Just come out here with one of my girls, nice and quiet.” He had more grays since Bucky left, they were growing thick around his temples and in growing his beard on this vacation it mostly showed salt and pepper. He smiled at you, fixing the fishing rod into the little divot on the side of the boat. The lake was still. Not too far behind you the cabin sat still sleeping. 

He seemed a little down lately. 

Those private times Bucky had told you about. Those scars from the war. They were a little more open now in the crisp morning air. The fresh air of the mountains that were around you. The wrinkles around his eyes were more noticeable. For the first time since you’ve met George Barnes he’s looked truly old. 

“Bucky hated comin’ out here.” He continues, “He’d get bored after the first half hour, wanna go back and sneak some of the bacon off the table while Ma was still cookin’.” Bucky had a habit of doing that. Sneaking bites, little pieces of chicken shredded on a plate, a string bean freshly snapped and crunchy in an empty pot ready to be cooked. A dip of his finger against the side of the bowl in some batter. Cakes, cookies, brownies, the dulce de leche you’d made for a Sunday dinner at his parent’s house got a double dip. First with his pointer, then with his pinky. A long kiss pressed to your cheek and a hum of approval. 

“He’ll be okay,” George’s soft blue eyes meet yours, the same eyes that Bucky and Becca both had, “He’ll be just fine.”

It took practice, but the words were coming a little easier. 

You could read on your own now, slowly, but still. Privacy helped. 

Bucky pressed a daisy in between the pages of his last letter. He’d found it on the side of the road as his campaign shook the last official day of winter from their bones. The temperature is steadily rising. The cold winter nights on a hard cot gave way to summer sweat and he was finally able to sleep. It’s not so bad when you get used to it, he wrote. 

He complained about the mud on his boots, how thick it would crust on. The rain had been endless in the spring. He wrote about how sometimes his boots would sink almost to his shins in the muck. How he would have to wait for it to dry before he scraped it off with a pocket knife. 

The next letter had a crocus. Purple and pressed, the flower stained the page. 

You wrote to him about how you’d seen someone who looked just like Steve on a poster in Manhattan. If Steve was a poster boy for a carved out all american man. They were calling the guy Captain America. They even started making short films. Becca had told you about going to see one with a classmate, she also thinks he kind of looks like Steve. He had sent you a letter, you told Bucky. Steve did. And she assumed he received one as well. He had gone to basic. Someone let him into the military. You hoped they put him behind a desk. 

A picture came in the mail. 

A picture of Bucky in his uniform. The kind of picture, you thought, and couldn’t help but think, would sit next to his casket. 

It was on your mantle now. 

“Cómo estás? [How are you?]” The noise startling. You fumbled with the keys in your hand, turning to look at him. Mateo. You hadn’t seen him much, he’d moved onto another girl, someone else to push around quite quickly after you. A guy like him didn’t stay single for very long. 

In the early days of your relationship with Bucky you’d run into him in the hall. A bubbly girl wrapped around his arm. Someone young, younger than you, and too naive to see the man they were in love with was trouble. A girl that would get jealous and possessive when another girl looked at their man. You’d been on the receiving end of a glare or two, or five. But he never talked to you after that. Not until right now. 

Your hand wrapped around a stack of letters fresh off the front lines. 

A dish of leftovers in the fridge waiting to be warmed up and aching feet from walking in your heels up and down the streets of Manhattan under the guise of being Winnie’s maid or servant or however the department store clerks viewed you. 

A day of shopping for a few new summer dresses. For the girls, and for you. Your new dress hung in a garment bag over your arm. 

Now your heart was racing. 

Mateo was close, a little too close for comfort. 

“Qué deseas? [What do you want?]” You ask, fisting your keys tightly. The corner of his lips twitch. 

“No puedo ver cómo estás? [I can’t see how you are?]” He was trying to act innocently, but you knew he was up to something. 

“No,” Your eyes shift behind him to look down the empty hallway, “No puedes. [You can’t.]” You jam the key into the lock, twisting it quickly as he grabbed your arm. 

“Relax.” He said, standing too close. Far too close. “Voy a la guerra mañana. [I’m going to war tomorrow.]” His chest almost flush with yours, hand tight around your arm. “Solo estoy buscando algo de consuelo. [I’m just looking for a little comfort.]” You roll your eyes, pushing on his chest to create some distance. 

“Estoy casada [I’m married.]” You try once again to push him further from you, heart rate spiking. 

“Él no está aquí. [He’s not here],” Mateo grumbles, “El nunca lo sabrá. [He’ll never know.]” 

Locks clicked heavily as he yelled from the other side of the door. A white man’s whore. That’s what he called you. The garment bag tossed over the back of the chair Bucky liked to sit in to listen to the radio at night. The pack of letters clutched tightly to your chest as you sunk down to the floor, kicking off your heels. The next day you’d talk to Winnie and George about moving. 

They helped you get a house. 

Close to theirs, but it was in Bucky’s name. It was a ruse that had been worked out. Just make people think you’re the hired help so they weren’t calling the cops when a strange Hispanic woman was coming and going from a home on their street. The pursed lips and upturned noses didn’t talk to you, and that’s fine. That worked out for you. 

The home was beautiful. Bought with your saved wages and Bucky’s military income. The dark hardwood and an eat-in kitchen. It needed a little polish. It was an older house, but the family was happy to help. 

You polished the floors with Winnie. The girls helped you paint each room. George fixed the little things that Bucky would have had he been here. The leaky faucet, new knobs on the cabinets, a creaky floorboard or two. 

Winnie stood in the doorway of one room. The one closest to the master, a wistful look on her face. “God willing this will be a nursery one day.” She said. And it made your heart ache. Bucky’s side of the bed was especially empty after that. 

You wrote to him about the house, but you didn’t mention his Mother’s comment. 

You wrote to him about the way the sun filters in through the kitchen window. How the house was much more quiet than the apartment. No loud neighbors arguing at 2 am. No thick scented mixed smell of dinner that took over in the evenings. No banging on the ceiling or floors. So quiet. So lonely. 

You told him how you hung the dried peonies in bundles on the entryway in the kitchen. Another bundle near the front door. You could see them as soon as you walked in. 

He wrote about how he couldn’t wait to see it. How he couldn’t wait to see you. How his missed you. How he looked at your picture every chance he got. 

Italy surrendered to the allies. It was time to move on. 

His letters stopped. 

And so did you heart. 

You sat in the middle of your bedroom floor. The letters in a box you kept under the desk in what would be the study if you ever got it set up. The box was in front of you now. Fingers shaking as you thumb through, rereading the loving words of your husband. Praying to God that he was okay. That maybe they were lost in the mail. That maybe he couldn’t find time to write right now. He was in the thick of the war after all. 

It had been a particularly rough week. And that thick bundle of letters that seemed to arrive like clockwork on Thursdays was something you’d been desperately looking forward to. Someone had made a comment. 

It wasn’t like you weren’t used to those comments. But it was from a friend of Winnie’s. You had gone to her house with a bundle of fabric, enough for a dress for you and Becca. One you’d promised to let Becca help with. It was there that one of her friend’s had come around for lunch. The two women chatted merrily in the kitchen while Becca was talking animatedly about what Bucky had written to her since the last time you saw her. 

Something about the last Dodgers game. She kept him updated about scores and something about Curt Davis. But what rang clear as a bell from the other room, was Winnie’s friend saying, “You shouldn’t let your children get so comfortable with the help.” She then called you something you wouldn’t repeat. Casual. Like talking about the weather. But the worst part about it is that Winnie said nothing. 

You realized something then, and you had this argument with yourself more than once. You love Bucky. You love his family. But there was always going to be this little line of distance between you and it all. When Bucky was around he seemed to bridge that gap. 

You could imagine if he were here and heard that comment that woman would have met the door, but he wasn’t here. And she didn’t. Because as much as Winnie and George were progressive and believed in equal rights and desegregation, it wasn’t easy to speak out about it. Especially with the people they’ve known their entire life. It’s easier to let people think you’re the help. It’s easier for them. 

And you couldn’t help but think they don’t mean it. Times are slowly moving forward and they’re not sure what to do with the change. How forward could they be? How open could they be about it without being exiled from the community they grew up in? 

But you had been exiled. You had spoken out about your relationship with Bucky when you’d been confronted about it by some of the girls when you were at the factory still. And you defended him. They thought it fine for him to chase your skirt but once that ring was on your finger it was a whole different ball game. You chose to stand your ground. Dig in your heels, and only two girls and a friend of your Mother’s stuck by you. 

It’s hard, but it’s what you have to do. And Winnie didn’t do it. 

So here you sat, Bucky’s letters no longer arriving. This wasn’t like when you’d first moved in and had to go pick up your mail at your old apartment building. He wrote the new address on the recent ones. He couldn’t have mixed that up, but maybe? Tears smudged the corners. 

You wouldn’t feel relief until letters showed up the week after. The horror of expecting men at your door to tell you that your husband was killed in action was squashed when a pack of letters arrived. 

It was Steve on the posters, he wrote. Steve rescued him. He’d been captured, but he was okay. He didn’t go into detail. He didn’t say what happened, but just that he was okay. He apologized for scaring you, the letters you’d written him they’d given to him almost all at once. The last few frantic writings of please answer me. 

You didn’t say anything about what happened with Winnie. 

But you also didn’t go to the Barnes household for Thanksgiving dinner. 

“Doin’ alright in here kid?” George came over with a glass dish. The gentle knock and enter that Dad’s do. You were writing Bucky, his old Spanish-English book tabbed and sat next to you at the kitchen table. 

It wasn’t his fault. Nor the girl’s, but you couldn’t help but want to stay away. It sat heavy as a rock on your chest. You knew it wasn’t his fault, and part of you wanted to forgive Winnie. Maybe she was caught off guard, maybe she didn’t know what to say. But you couldn’t help but feel like she could have said anything and it would have been better than what she did. Which was say nothing.

“She’s been crying.” He said, “She knows you don’t want to see her.” George was a stand up guy. He’s the one who had been employing minorities in his shop. He’s stood up against some men that had shattered his front window in the beginning. He threw a bible in their face and called them all heretics. “She didn’t think that Lucille would ever say something like that, and I know that doesn’t make it right, but you know none of us feel that way about you.” 

The glass dish had servings of everything from Thanksgiving dinner. A piece of pie wrapped in foil on top. 

“I think the two of you should talk, it’s not good for you to be in this house all alone.” 

Bucky wrote to you about the Howling Commandos. He sent a picture of him and Steve that sat on the mantle now. 

I’ll Be Home for Christmas. It was a new song by Bing Crosby. 

He wrote about how he heard it on the radio for the first time right before they left London. It would have been your first Christmas as husband and wife. This Christmas. He mailed home some trinkets he’d been collecting for you. A little eiffel tower. A hair pin he got in Italy. A box of tea and chocolates from the UK. He wrote that maybe the war will be over next year. Maybe next Christmas you’ll be together again and you can celebrate Christmas as a family. 

Maybe.


	6. 1944

In the middle of Harlem, almost an hour on the train from Brooklyn there was a movie theater you could go to. One that showed the movies of the war effort. Moving pictures that showed Captain America and the Howling Commandos. You could see him there, large and in black and white. Your husband. You cried the first time you saw him in action.  
You wrote to him about seeing it. His hair was a little longer than he’d kept it at home. His face was more serious. You could see the dark circles under his eyes that sparked the memory of how he wrote to you about the lack of sleep. How he was always tired now. How the first thing he was going to do after getting home, aside from kissing you and eating dinner at his Ma’s, was sleep. 

He’d lost weight. You knew he wasn’t able to eat enough. Not like when he was home. You knew it was something he had to deal with. His last letter talked a little about hunger. The chocolate bars they gave them in their rations, he wrote, were chalky but the sweetest thing he’d had in a while. 

He asked if you’d make the dulce de leche you’d made not long before he’d left. Your Mother’s guilty pleasure. He said he could taste it in his dreams. That’s what he wanted, that and his Ma’s spice cake. He wrote about boliche and his Ma’s roast chicken. He wrote about getting ice cream at the soda shop, having a burger at his favorite diner. 

You watched a man you couldn’t believe was actually Steve lay out plans on the hood of a war vehicle. Laying out plans for a mission already completed. Your husband, a man you hadn’t seen in two years, fighting tirelessly beside him. You only hoped he would continue to do so. And that this war will end and he will be home soon. 

“I wanted to apologize.” Winnie lay her hand over yours, “I was taken off guard by what she said,” Winnie stopped by in the morning bearing a loaf of banana bread wrapped in cloth, still warm from the oven. “I shouldn’t have let her say those things about you.” Truth be told you’d already forgiven Winnie. You could understand that it’s hard, but times were changing. Slowly. But they were. 

“Thank you.” For the apology. Winnie cried when you opened the door, it broke your heart a bit. George conveyed her sorrow to you a bit earlier in the week. And the girls came over once or twice to check in and brought food with them each time, undoubtedly made by Winnie. 

Bucky and Steve. The Howling Commandos. He didn’t outright say it, but he was doing dangerous work. That you knew. These side missions, these bases they were infiltrating, something to do with a cell called Hydra. A brutal underbelly of the Nazi regime. Something deeper, more sinister with worse intentions. 

It made your heart leap in your chest every time there was a knock on the door. The fear that it would be someone from the government coming to tell you that Bucky was gone. That he wasn’t coming home. 

But his letters kept coming. Fewer in number than they had before. 

It’s harder to write when they’ve got us in the middle of nowhere. He says. They ship the commandos all over Europe. Chasing after Hydra cells. He sends out the letters in a thick stack when he can. Steve met a woman, he says. Margaret Carter. 

Bucky says you’d like her. And how when they get home the four of you should go out. A double date. Some realm of normalcy after the horrors he sees out there. 

He talks about something truly horrible. They were skin and bones, these kids. These people. Starved half to death. Flies on their bodies as though they were already dead. Taken from the concentration camps and put in these Hydra facilities to be experimented on. Bodies left to rot in the cells with them. 

The smell, he says. He doesn’t think he will ever forget that smell. 

These aren’t in the letters he sends to his family. 

He said he started having nightmares. He couldn’t understand how someone could do something so evil. To hate someone so passionately for what they believed. For who they were. But then again, he hates them for what they believed, for who they were. These monsters who ripped people from their homes and starve, beat, and kill them.

He just wants to be home. He sends a pressed peony on your anniversary. 

I love you, he says, more than anything. I can’t wait to see you again. 

He acts like he’s not afraid, because he doesn’t want to worry you. He says that the allies are winning, that he’ll be home in no time. 

“Are you Y/N Barnes?” Usually you don’t get bothered while out. Most women who shopped at this grocery store ignored you, the rumors of whether you were hired help or housewife circulated, but they were all too afraid to ask. It was impolite after all. And most believed you were the Help regardless. 

“Yes, can I help you?” Your english had gotten better but was still heavily accented. The woman behind you had a soft smile, you didn’t recognize her as someone you knew but the younger girl behind her looked to be Becca’s age. The Mother blushed, 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Her voice soft, so those around could not overhear, she stepped closer to you, “My daughter is infatuated with the dress Rebecca Barnes was wearing last Sunday in church and Rebecca says that you’re the one who made it.” You did. It was a soft blue for the oncoming spring. Yellow daisies hand stitched into the skirt. 

“I did.” The basket in your hands was growing heavy with the fresh peaches they’d recently gotten in, you weren’t sure where this woman was going with this. 

“Would you be able to make my daughter a dress just as fine?” The woman asked, “I’d be happy to pay you.” The young girl, fourteen, looked hopeful behind her mother. “A dress like that would probably be ten dollars in the store? Does that sound fair?” 

“What color would you like?” Ten dollars was good money for a dress. You couldn’t say no and the woman and her daughter were both very sweet. You’d worked hard on the dress for seven days before she came to pick it up. Her daughter cooing over the fabric and turning around in the mirror as you made final measurements. The blush pink and white stitching, blush pink roses soft in the hem. 

“Thank you very much.” The Mother, handing you the money as payment for the dress now zipped in a garment bag they’d brought. “I’m sure once I wring a little more out of my husband's pockets we will be back for more.” 

One dress became another, and another Mother wanted a dress for her daughter, and then the other girls in Becca’s class asking for dresses. Suddenly you were making your own money, not in the factory this time, but enough to keep your fingers busy and give you something to do during the day with the help of Winnie. 

Winnie would help you measure and fit the girls. She would help you with the basic stitching when the orders piled up, you would work on the finer details. The small stitching. The tug and pull of forming flowers. 

You excitedly wrote to Bucky about it. 

Once you were married he didn’t want you working at the factory anymore. “It’s a death trap.” He explained. But people could get away with a lot when it came to immigrants. Poor working conditions, not having the proper ventilation, and the long hours. You were doing the very thing he encouraged you to do all along. 

But making dresses for family was vastly different than making dresses for strangers. When prom season came around you were up to your ears in tulle and velvet. 

It seemed a little arbitrary, but he praised you for it anyway. You imagined him covered in dirt, out in the heat of summer, blood on his boots and an empty belly, writing this letter telling you how proud he was that you were doing something you loved doing. It felt heavy in your stomach. 

Like it was unfair.

But his checks went into the same account you put this money into. And it was good money. A plan for the future. 

A woman brought her baby once. A sweet fat little thing. Yes, she wailed and cried, she tugged on your hair and just about ripped the earring out of your ear but it gave a new craving. You wanted to start a family.

You thanked God that you hadn’t gotten pregnant before Bucky left, a baby was hard to handle alone. And with the stress and heartache with him being overseas you weren’t sure you could have handled having a baby going on two years old now. But when he got home, it was something to be brought up. A maternal craving you didn’t know you had. 

The summer brought backyard barbecues and trips to the beach. For Bucky it was a little different. 

He wrote about some nice things. The countryside. Steve rambling incessantly about his new girl. A village that made them a decent meal. He said that he’d forgotten what good food tasted like. He wrote about how he got to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in a while. About how he got to meet Howard Stark. That Steve knew him. That Stark helped him become whatever he is now. Stronger, faster, a super soldier. 

Stark was talking about starting an organization to deal with people like this, Hydra. To keep groups like this from taking root. He offered Bucky a job when he gets back to New York. But that would be a conversation for another day, he writes, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. 

He also wrote about the Russians liberating a camp, how they felt like they were getting closer to the goal. He said this time next year he should be home with you the way it’s looking now. There were a number of hydra bases left, but they’ve spent the better part of a year eradicating them. 

These letters that were being read by you now, albeit slowly, but Suzy was no longer looking over your shoulder became brazen, a little racy. 

Bucky wrote about how he dreams of you, every night. How you feel against him. How you taste on his tongue. You felt heat grow in your cheeks reading about it. He talked about how he looked at your picture every day, how he craved your lips. How your hair felt in his hands. How your body felt under his. 

You wrote back about tracing your fingers over his back, trailing your lips there. The closeness that sex brought you. How it made you feel. A breath apart and panting with it. The reunion was craved by both sides. The longing in the letters was clear. But it quickly turned sour. 

There was a husband, he wrote, in one of the villages. He’d gotten to safety. But his wife was taken. There was a Hydra base nearby. These men, he wrote, come whenever they want, whatever time of day they want, and they rob these people who have no means to defend themselves. When they found the base, it was similar to the others. He didn’t want you to know what conditions he was put under, so he never described it to you. But you could assume it was terrible with the way they found the people there. 

The man’s wife was dead. And he described how this man fell in the street. The emotion of it, raw and powerful. It broke your heart. He lamented about how the man told him that he’d met his love as a child. He spent his entire life with her. And now she’s gone. He asked what he should do. Because he didn’t know. And he wasn’t the only civilian who experienced loss that day. 

The sorrow was palpable, he wrote, there were no songs of victory by the campfire that night. There was no celebration. The village was small enough that everyone lost someone, and it was felt.

The summer closed with the boys back in London, seemingly the home base for whatever missions they’d been working on. And there was something big, or so Bucky eluded to. He couldn’t say to compromise the mission, but it was something big. He didn’t know exactly what would happen, but it was the beginning of the end, the real end. Of Hydra and Nazi Germany. 

It gave you hope. Maybe he’ll be home soon. Maybe this war will finally be over and he’ll be home, safe. 

Communication was tight for the rest of the year. Something you chose to ignore by making the girl’s fall and winter dresses. Throwing yourself into your dress orders, an entire room in the house, one that would, god willing, be a room for one of your future children, covered in crushed blue velvet and rich greens and reds. You’d gotten a beautiful champagne colored tule you couldn’t help but buy along with some frivolous ribbons and playful buttons to change up the looks of the back of the dresses. 

It was something easy to focus on, mindful and relaxing tasks that took your mind off of the fact that letters were fewer than ever and your husband was thousands of miles away doing truly dangerous work. 

The Barnes household was buzzing with activity. All morning preparations for Christmas dinner, straight after Church you found yourself in the Barnes’ kitchen peeling potatoes, cutting carrots, and trussing a turkey. 

Softly in the background was a memory of last year. I’ll Be Home for Christmas. The optimism of last year drowned with the optimism for next year. Bucky said he feels like it will be over soon. And hopefully it will be. 

There was a stack of presents accumulated from last year's Christmas and birthdays, and the year before’s. Waiting for him to open. 

“Maybe he’ll be home by his birthday.” Ginny was twenty and beautiful, now with a steady boyfriend you were sure would propose any day now. 

The room was light and hopeful. George Barnes was stringing cranberries with Rebecca and Suzy, and now eighteen-year-old Ruth was reading a letter that had just arrived for the family. 

“They got to see a USO show before going back out.” Ruth reads, “Dinah Shore.” You looked at her confused. You didn’t know who Dinah Shore was. “She sings ‘Yes, My Darling Daughter’, she was in ‘Thank Your Stars’.” You shake your head, never having heard the song or seen that movie before. Ruth shrugs, a smile on her face, “She’s blonde and pretty.” As an explanation to why they would have Dinah Shore try to raise the morale of the troops. A laugh was shared. “He said that he’s never going to eat another can of beans for the rest of his life.” 

You focused on placing the turkey in the oven. There was some unfound jealousy at the thought of your husband screaming and shouting, hollering at a woman sent to perform for them. It was dumb, but it was there. 

You tried to remind yourself about his last letter, the one he’d written before he left for his mission. He’d written enough to stagger out some letters, but you were afraid they were going to stop coming all together. You felt like you were being silly having jealousy about some woman who you didn’t even know. And it quickly went away as you thought about maybe this time next year. Maybe it’ll be all over. And that extra spot at the table will be filled. 

You could only hope.


	7. 1945

In your dreams he was there. Always. 

He’d drop his bag, run into your arms and kiss you on the front steps of your brownstone until all the breath left your body. You’d have a family dinner, and then he would be yours. Completely. You’d be with him every day again, spoiled with his presence. After him being gone for four years of your marriage he’d finally be back. And everything would be okay. 

But it wasn’t like that, at all. 

Hitler committed suicide with Eva Braun in some bunker in Europe April of 1945. But Bucky was home before that. 

And missing his left arm. 

He didn’t come to the house you’d made for the two of you, not right away. You found out he was home when Steve showed up to your door. The dark oak opened up to his hulking figure and your stomach dropped. 

“Is he dead?” You asked. Your worst fears standing in front of you, Steve’s face full of sorrow and guilt. The tears started rolling before he could even get a word out, his hands coming to grasp your arms and pull you to him. 

“No,” He shushed, “He’s not. But he’s in bad shape.” He didn’t want to see you. He’d been back in New York for six days. It hurt. A lot. 

The ride to the hospital was silent. Winnie and George in tow behind in their Oldsmobile. Steve said they transported him from somewhere in the mountains in eastern Europe. The final mission, one that had Steve chasing something called the tesseract while Bucky’s life was saved. 

“What happened?” You asked. Steve looked at you with guilt. His knuckles white on the steering wheel. 

“I let him down.” 

He was pale. Thin. He looked worse, you noticed, than he did in those films. You let his parents go in first while you idled in the hallway. You cried silently in the car, and excused yourself once you arrived at the private facility just outside the city limits. In the restroom you looked at yourself in the mirror under the fluorescent lights. 

You tried to swallow it down, the hurt. Knowing that he’d been so close to you for almost a week and hadn’t reached out. 

Winnie and George stepped out, the woman was crying and softly rubbed your arm as they let you have your time. 

The room was quiet when you entered, his eyes focused heavily on the sheets in front of him. His left arm, from right above the elbow down was gone. The skin bandaged and the arm hung uselessly at his side. The relief of seeing him alive let your body in a long breath. It caught his attention, pulling his eyes from the sheets to yours. 

They were sullen, sad and defeated. But they were his. 

You took a cautious step forward, his lips parting, eyes glossy. 

“Hi.” You could feel your bottom lip wobbling. His right arm reached out for you, taking your hand in his. Cold. And pulled you closer. “I’m sorry.” You sat on the side of the bed, his arm pulling you close. “I’m so sorry.” 

Bucky Barnes didn’t deserve you. That’s what he decided. It wasn’t long after he’d seen you for the first time in almost four years that he realized it. He wasn’t steady on his feet for a while. You helped him into a home he didn’t know. The one you made for him to come home to. Your wedding picture hanging in the den behind a sofa he’d never seen before. 

An armchair you’d gotten him that he’d never sat in before he settled into while you got dinner started. You turned the dial on a radio he’d never listened to before and swallowed the fact that he wasn’t what you deserved. 

He was broken. 

You’d brought him one of his old shirts to bring him home in. The fabric loose and shapeless on his body, you’d even brought a pin to fasten his left sleeve up onto the offending stump. 

He wondered when you would leave him. How good of a husband could he possibly be? There was no work in his future. He couldn’t provide, not anymore. What good would one arm do? 

You smiled softly at him as you brought a tray over. “The doctor said not to give you anything too rich?” Toast, bread he was sure you’d baked for him. A light colored broth that spilled off his spoon while his hand shook. The embarrassment of having you spoon it into his mouth. 

“I’m not hungry.” He mutters. The broth only half gone. A bite or two of the toast. You break his heart when you smile and say okay before taking it back to the kitchen. 

“Did you want to lie down?” In a bed he’d never slept in. He shakes his head, 

“I’ll be fine here.” Steve was supposed to stop by later, but he didn’t want to see him either. He needed time. 

“I have a couple dress orders to finish,” You explain, leaning over him and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, he closes his eyes on the contact. Savoring it. “If you need anything just call for me.” He feels himself nod, but it doesn’t really register. He watches as you walk into the adjacent room, sitting down at your sewing machine. The steady whir putting him to sleep. 

It wasn’t easy. There was no happy reunion. And he hadn’t even kissed you since he’d gotten back. But you were trying to suffer through. He could have died. Steve explained over coffee, Bucky in a restless sleep in the den, that he’d fallen from a train into a ravine. It’s a miracle he’d survived, let alone the only thing he lost was his arm. 

“Howard is working on something to help him, but it will take time.” Steve explains, “I can stay if you need help.” You looked at your husband, in desperate need of a real bath and some solid food, before back at his friend. 

“I’ll let you know.” 

The work that kept you busy while he was gone, kept you busy while he was recovering. You know he doesn’t mean it. The anger. The lashing out. But you couldn’t help mourn the loss of the sweet and gentle man you’d married. 

“I can do it.” He’d snap. Trying to button his shirt. 

“Get out.” He’d bite. While you helped him bathe. 

“Just give me some fucking space.” He’d knocked over his plate trying to cut his own food. So you let him do it, you left the room, and you gave him some space. Crying into the fabric of the dresses that were currently your only income. 

His family visit. Sometimes once a day. Sometimes they would skip a day. Their voices carrying throughout the house. Asking him how he was. Winnie brought cakes and dishes to help ease the stress of cooking. George talked to him as though nothing was wrong. And he was soft and fond with the girls. 

It hurt. You didn’t know what you were doing wrong. How you ended up on the other end of his anger while his family got his soft words and thank-yous. 

“How has it really been?” Winnie asked, helping you clean the dishes. Bucky did pretty well during dinner. He let his Mom cut his food, his hands were shaking less. You sigh, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth and looking over your shoulder at the group in the den. Bucky in his armchair, a sad smile pulled onto his lips as Becca, now a young woman since he’d last seen her, told him all about her science fair. 

“It’s been hard.” You admit, “But it’ll be okay,” A fake smile, “Everyday he gets a little better.” It wasn’t untrue. His right hand was more sure, less shaky. He could move himself around the house, and he could bathe on his own. But he was still choosing to sleep in the chair and you were still left alone to cry at night. 

He was still choosing to be alone and distance himself from you and you couldn’t tell her that. You hadn’t even told Steve and Bucky wasn’t going to begin to tell anyone that he wasn’t sleeping in the same bed as his wife, let alone that you still hadn’t shared a kiss since the day he’d left you. 

But maybe this was part of his process. Maybe he just needed time to heal. It’ll get better. It has to. 

The house, after the family emptied out and was just the two of you, took on a heavy weight. The joy from the girls was gone. Winnie and George were no longer a buffer between you and your husband. He was quiet. That sad smile he’d been wearing was gone. Face blank and staring at the wall across from him. 

You stand in the doorway, and quietly ask, “Would you like more coffee?” The cup by his side is long since empty. His voice terse, almost annoyed, 

“No.” Your heart clenches in your chest and you nod, blinking away the tears. You enter the room, betraying his space and begin cleaning up the discarded coffee cups and dessert plates from his family. Quietly and without looking at him. “Can you just…” He rubbed his eyes, “Can you just fucking leave it?” The dishes clattered back onto the coffee table as you turned to him. 

“I’m just cleaning up-”

“You’re always fucking cleaning up,” He groans, “The dishes, dusting the fucking drapes, fluffing pillows. Just leave it.” You sigh, stepping towards him,

“What did I do?” You ask. “What can I do to help you?” His eyes met yours in a glare. “I try to do everything you ask me to do.” Your eyes welling with tears in frustration, “I’m around too often, I’m not around enough.” Bucky stands from the chair, less than a foot away. “I don’t know what to do to help you.”

“Do nothing!” He yells, the vein in his neck standing out, “I’m sick of you pitying me and trying to do everything for me. Just fucking leave.” Your face flushed and hot,

“The only person giving you pity is yourself.” You spit, “You sit in that chair and feel sorry for yourself all day while I’m just trying to help you out of it.” 

“I don’t need you to help me out of it.” The volume increasing. 

“I’m your wife, what am I supposed to do?” His right hand gripped your upper arm, hard enough to make you gasp and pulled you from the den, releasing once he’d shoved you into the foyer. The den’s french doors. The ones that you fell in love with when buying the house were then slammed in your face. The curtains on them pulled shut. 

The sob that he heard you release on the other side of the door made him sick. He grabbed the small stack of plates you set on the coffee table and slammed them on the ground before screaming and sitting back down heavily in his chair. His belly bubbling with bile and guilt. 

Why couldn’t he just get over it? Why couldn’t he just tell you that he appreciates and loves you? That he’s sorry for being such an asshole. 

Why won’t you just leave him? You deserve better. You should just go. 

His palm burned with the guilt of knowing how hard he just grabbed you. He could remember Mateo doing the same thing. The bruise that man left on your arm. He could remember kissing it as if it would just disappear under his touch. And now he probably just left a similar bruise. 

He sighed heavily, wiping the tears off his face before standing and going to grab the broom and dust pan. It was difficult. And a lot of cursing followed, the struggle to hold the broom and dust pan with his foot, cleaning up the shattered ceramic. 

He didn’t want you to leave, not really. And he shouldn’t have exploded on you. He sat in the living room, he’ll fix this. Somehow. 

The next morning you woke up groggy and with a splitting headache. You felt dehydrated. You slipped your robe on and fixed the errant roller that seemed to want to slip out of your scarf and made your way downstairs. Your heart started racing when you saw the french doors open. 

There was a burnt smell in the air and a quick panic made you think you left the stove on last night, but when you stepped into the kitchen you took a pause. Bucky’s back was to you, almost like you’d find him years before. Next to him was a pile of semi-burned pancakes. You hesitated in the doorway. Your arm ached slightly, the robe covering up the blooming bruise. 

He could sense you there, and turned to look at you, mouth dropping into a frown. You took a step back and the frown pulled deeper. 

“Dahlin,” He dropped the spatula in his hand, turning the stove off and stepping around the table acting as a kitchen island. He came closer and watched you take a step back away from him. “I uh…” You could feel tears already and cursed yourself for being so emotional, “I’m sorry.” He stopped a foot away from you, eyes glassy, “I’m so sorry baby, I should have never…” A tear rolled down his cheek and stepped closer, bringing his right hand to gently rest on your shoulder, trailing his fingers to your neck, “I’ve been horrible to you and I know it’s not okay, I just…” 

“I’m just trying to help you.” You whimper, his thumb tracing your lower lip. He nods, 

“I know,” another tear and a deep breath, “There’s no excuse for how I’ve been treating you mi amor.” His thumb tugs on your bottom lip, “I don’t deserve you.” He rests his forehead against yours, “I knew that before, but now… I can’t even…” 

“James.” You pull away from him, taking a step back, “I love you, more than anything.” The bags under his eyes were darker than yesterday, “I’m your wife… and I was just happy you came back alive.” A lot of women were not as fortunate. He nods, looking down at the floor before wrapping his arm around your back and pulling you into his chest. 

“I’ll do better.” He whispers into your hair. “I promise.” 

That first kiss was syrupy and sweet. But long overdue. His bottom lip chapped against yours, he met your lips again and again. Tongue coming out to brush against your bottom lip and head tilting to consume. 

“I missed you so much.” He whispered. You’re a breath away, eyes unfocused and head dizzy, 

“I missed you too.”

The bed that went unused by him until now was too soft, he could feel himself sink into the mattress further with every roll of your hips. Soft gasps and sighs, the grip of you around his aching cock was hard to ignore, he wished he could have held your hips with both hands. The way he was used to, but this feeling was incomparable. 

He’d forgotten what it was like. 

Your curls sweat out and forgotten down your back. The thick strands he used to bury both hands in while he thrust above you. He settled on his right hand holding your hip as tightly as he could. Your hips rolling in a smooth rhythm that already brought him over once. His erection hadn’t gone down, but you also hadn’t cum yet. He braced his legs against the bed and thrust upward, your back arching and breasts pushing forward as he found the spot he was looking for, refreshing his memory. 

You were a vice grip around him as you came and brought him to follow, gasping against your damp skin as you lay over him, haphazard thrusts through the aftershocks. 

…

The same facility Bucky had initially recovered in was one of Howard Stark’s private properties, a sprawling lab you’d only seen three rooms of. Until now. 

Howard Stark you remember from the Expo. Handsome and suave, surrounded by women and a quick thinker. 

It seemed as though that wasn’t just his on stage persona. 

“Rogers, Barnes.” He greeted the boys before turning his attention to you, “Mrs. Barnes,” A sly grin, “Is there any convincing I could do to make you become Mrs. Stark?” Your mouth dropped open and eyes darted to Bucky.

“I’m right here, Howard.” Bucky’s hand slipped into yours and brought you tightly into his side. The grin never leaving Howard’s lips he continued, 

“She’s too beautiful for you Barnes.” He joked, “She should be on stage with me.” Steve laughed at Bucky’s clear discomfort, laying a hand on his shoulder as he followed Howard into the lab. 

“What did you call us down here for?” He asked. Bucky was sat in a chair before Howard brought out some metal contraption. 

“I’m gonna build our friend here a new arm.” A deep breath heard by all. 

“A new one?” You asked, confused. The metal contraption was basically a metal tube with a joint ¼ down the tube, wires in between. 

“How would that even work?” Bucky asked. Howard gave him a serious look.

“What I have here is the first prototype of many.” He explains, “It’s going to be painful and a long process, but I think if we work together on this we can get a working prosthesis that connects to your nerves and allows you to have full feeling in the arms, all the way down to your fingers.” Steve examined it, as crude as the thing was it was only the beginning of what Howard planned to do. 

“Let’s do it.” Bucky was quick to answer and ready. 

The screams. You had to leave the room and step outside. Bucky assured you he was fine, that this had to be done, but you couldn’t be in the room another minute while he was subjected to that pain. 

It was bad enough when he’d wake up with nightmares, shirt completely soaked through, or the phantom limb pain that seemed to come and go in waves. This was an entirely different level. 

“Would you like one?” A smooth voice spoke. You turned to see a woman in a dress suit, her hair perfectly curled, cigarette poised between her fingers. You take the lit cigarette she offers, leaning back against the wall of the building. 

“Thank you.” She smiles. 

“Steve and James talk a lot about you.” You look at her and she continues, “Sorry, I’m Margaret Carter, but everyone calls me Peggy.” Her hand out to shake, you shook her hand. 

“I’m Y/N Barnes.” She grins. 

“When I first met James you were all he talked about.” She breathed out a cloud of smoke, “He really loves you, I hope you know that.” Like she knew all the struggles the two of you were going through and aimed to soothe. “When he was hurt,” She says, “The first thing he said was to make sure you were taken care of… he didn’t think he was going to survive, but to be fair, neither did we.” 

“I’m happy he did.” Peggy smiles.

“So are we.” 

Ginny was married in the fall. The leaves just beginning to change she took her vows in the aftermath of Hiroshima and the end of what they were calling World War Two. There were only a few glares and negative comments over the fact that you were in her bridal party. 

The revelation that you weren’t hired help but the wife of James Barnes was startling to most. Some, the women who’d been in your house while you fit their daughters with dresses, didn’t seem to mind. They’d seen that wedding photo above your sofa and hadn’t said a word about it. 

“She’s beautiful.” You remark to Bucky, watching as Ginny and her new husband Daniel had their first dance. 

“I feel like I’ve missed so much.” He whispers against your neck, placing a kiss there softly. “Ginny is married, Ruth might be married by this time next year,” The boy crazy Ruth found herself infatuated with a man fresh from war, he was sweet and only joined near the end. As Bucky would say, “He lucked out.” But how lucky could you really be at war? “Suzy is almost done with school and Becca…” His favorite, “She’s almost done too.” She was sixteen and while she wasn’t showing a keen interest in boys, Bucky still wasn’t ready to let go of his baby. Not yet. 

“You haven’t missed everything.” You assured him, his arm was around your waist, your back leaning against his chest as you watched others join the newlyweds on the dance floor. Bucky had a temporary dummy left arm on tonight, useless but it made him feel more normal. His right arm traced patterns on your belly as you both enjoyed the music. “James.” You look at him, a soft happy smile on his face. His eyes meet yours and he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“Yes mi amor?” Another kiss.

“I’m pregnant.”


	8. 1946

The cries of a newborn, sweet to those who no longer have one, but frustrating to those still dealing with one. 

Christmas of 1945 was a blessed Christmas. The first grandchild receiving the most presents even though the baby hadn’t even been born yet. Hand knit booties, little caps, a crib that Bucky and Steve put together and set in the corner of your bedroom. The nursery painted and nested. 

Winnie gifted you with a rocking chair. “You’ll thank me later.” She said. And it did come in handy. The gift left in the nursery soon was dragged into your bedroom, late night feedings while you rocked both you and the baby back to sleep. 

It was a long and arduous labor. Almost a year to the day Bucky had returned. The contractions started just after breakfast and labor lasted well into the next day. It was as dawn broke that his cries broke through the air for the first time. 

Your sweet little boy. 

He was laid onto your chest, wailing halting as his skin touched yours, lips smacking for the first time in open air. His little fists clenched tight. James Buchanon Barnes II, Jaime. 

His hair, eyes, and skin were yours. Everything else was his fathers. If Bucky had brown eyes they could have been twins as a baby. 

Jaime was a good baby for the most part, alert, always looking around and didn’t cry too often. But he had a lot of trouble throughout the night in the early days. 

You resented Bucky and glared at him while he slept, Jaime suckling on your raw nipples and fatigue plagued your body. 

“How can I help?” Bucky would ask. But beside changing diapers and watching him while you napped there wasn’t much else he could do. Bucky had gotten pretty good at changing a diaper with one arm. Once every two or three months Howard would have another prototype, something else for Bucky to try but had volunteered a break while the Barnes’ got settled with their new baby. 

And a sweet baby he was. 

A spoiled baby he was. 

Winnie loved taking him. George couldn’t put him down. And the girls loved passing him around and cooing as he began to babble. 

Bucky was obsessed with his son. The man cried when he was born, when you nestled his little body in the crook of Bucky’s arm. He said, “Thank you,” with tears in his eyes, he pressed his forehead against yours, “Thank you for this.” But you were thankful. Thankful for your little family. The baby you’d been craving for so long. 

The future you wanted. 

“Can I hold him?” Peggy held her hands out, letting you place Jaime into her arms. A smile stretching across her lips. “He’s gorgeous.” 

“Thank you.” You smile, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“Howard is trying to break James down into joining us.” She says, bouncing the now giggling Jaime on her knee. “James would be an incredible asset to the team” At the moment ‘us’ was only Howard, Steve, Peggy and the rest of the commandos currently enjoying their time off having returned to their families at the end of the war. 

While you were focused on Bucky the rest of the world celebrated the end of the war. Men came home, husbands, fathers, sons… reunited with their families in the wake of the utter destruction the US laid on Hiroshima. 

“They were ready to surrender,” Steve spat, the day it was announced, his jaw hasn’t been unclenced since. “It was unnecessary.” The US did the one thing he hated, became a bully. He felt disrespected by it. Like he just went and fought to defend the helpless, take down an international crime syndicate in the name of justice, only to come home and have the United States act on a grudge. 

He now manned the small grill in your new backyard. “The kid needs a backyard.” Bucky claimed. It probably had little or nothing to do with the fact that he was a disabled war vet who was married to a Cuban woman and the stares he’d been getting pushing the pram around were starting to grate his nerves. It was in a cute little suburb outside of the city, still close enough that you could continue with dress orders and he could help George with the shop when he needed it, but far enough away that no one really knew you there. 

And no one had said anything about the two of you as a couple. Yet. 

A bottle of beer passed between the two men, while you took Jaime back into your lap. “Howard is getting close.” Peggy said, “Maybe this week.” Bucky smiled at her before turning to his son. This week maybe he’ll have his arm back. A kiss to your forehead and he scooped up the little boy from your lap, holding him tight to his chest and blowing a raspberry on his stomach. Jaime giggled and squirmed in his grip before turning his head to look back at you and cry. 

“He hates me.” Bucky sighs, the baby reaching his chubby little arms out to you. 

“He doesn’t hate you.” Jaime rests his head on your shoulder while you rub his back. His fingers gripping at your shirt. “He just loves me more.” Bucky presses his lips to yours before pressing a kiss to his son’s head of curls. 

“We need to have a girl next,” He says, “So she’ll love me more.” The entire pregnancy Bucky had been hoping for a girl. He wasn’t disappointed when you had Jaime, and he liked to spend time with him, but Jaime was definitely more attached to you. 

“I’m his food.” You laugh, “Of course he wants me more.” 

“He’s a mama’s boy.” Bucky jibed. “I want a daddy’s girl.” Steve laid out the burgers on the table, taking his seat across from Peggy. 

“Have you thought any more about it Buck?” You settled Jaime into the wooden highchair at the end of the picnic table and Bucky began to give him little pieces of squished blueberries which Jamie seemed content to play with. 

“I’m just not sure I want to be that far from my family.” He says. “We’ll talk later.” And it was always later. He didn’t want to talk about it in front of you. The danger that the missions had. You rested a hand over your belly, Jaime just learning to eat soft foods and you were already pregnant with baby number two. It was another reason why you’d agreed to move out of the city. 

“I could always go back to working for my Pa.” He’d say while you’re getting ready for bed. “Once Howard finishes my new arm.” He’d gotten pretty good at surviving without one though. He could do pretty much everything he could do before, within reason. 

“But would you be happy doing that?” You asked. Jamie was sleeping in the room beside yours, trying something new now that he was sleeping through the night. “Would you be happy to settle for going back to work at the shop?” You knew what his answer would be. He’s been following Steve since they were kids, protecting him, making sure he was safe. “Would you be able to let him go out there alone?” 

“He wouldn’t be alone.” Bucky argued. But he knew what you meant. He stepped behind you at the vanity, squatting down to wrap an arm around your middle, splaying his hand wide over your growing belly. Your first pregnancy you hadn’t started showing until you were four or five months, but this one seemed to sprout right away. “But you would be.” You sigh and lean back against him, meeting his eyes in the mirror. 

“I want you to be happy.” 

“I am happy.”

The house was white, with powder blue shutters. The porch was large and Bucky recently hung a porch swing with the help of Steve. Together they put up floral wallpaper and carried in boxes, setting up your home while you held the still newborn Jaime. 

Now it was well lived in and not suitable for company most of the time, but it was your home. And you told Bucky you weren’t going to move again if you couldn’t help it. The big surprise was the spare bedroom he’d made into a sewing space for you. Your Mother’s old sewing machine, a place to organize fabrics, buttons, and thread. 

You were finishing dress orders every day, but it was becoming a little too much. 

“Why don’t you ask some of the girls to help you?” Bucky was talking about the girls from the factory, not all of them completely abandoned you when you married him, but you know some had started families of their own. He was holding your son, Jamie playing with a scrap of tulle that was shimmering in the sunlight. “You’re not going to be able to keep this up much longer, mi amor.” He was right, your back aches and your belly was growing every day. Soon you’d have two babies and it just wasn’t going to be possible. Especially if Bucky went back to work. 

So you outsourced. 

Two girls, friends you hadn’t talked to in a while agreed to help. Amara and Rosalyn. ‘Friends’ who had always been very close from what you’d seen. The girls still worked at the factory, but with the dress orders you had it would give them significant income. You were currently making $50 a week selling these dresses, but with the two of them you could do three times the work, $150 a week, with both of them getting 15% was good money. They couldn’t say no. 

With that kind of money coming in, “You wouldn’t have to work if you don’t want to.” Bucky wasn’t having it. “I’m making $105 a week with these.” A kiss to his palm. 

“I want to work again.” He says, “I want to help provide for our family.” 

The new arm was a little heavy, “But that will get modified over time.” Howard claimed. It was metal and cuffed around his upper arm. His shoulder was sore from the initial nerve connection, but stayed always a little stiff because of the weight of the arm. 

The first week or so a lot of dishes were broken, doors pulled off their hinges, and Bucky was refusing to hold Jaime. Something that he didn’t realize Jaime would have such a problem with. The sweet little boy crying and fussing, reaching out for his father but Bucky wouldn’t do any more but rub his back or kiss him before bed, 

“Not until I get this arm figured out.” He didn’t want to hurt him. Which was something you could understand, but your 6 month old baby could not. Jaime seemed to go backwards, waking up in the middle of the night wailing, unable to sleep. Crying uncontrollably no matter what you did. It wasn’t until Bucky stopped breaking things around the house, when he practiced fine motor skills with Howard, did he feel comfortable enough to finally soothe your son. 

Your body woke up on its own. Startled out of sleep by the silence, you’d been expecting Jamie to wake you up like he had been every night before but he was quiet. The house was quiet. Your hand brushes against the empty sheets, still warm from where Bucky’s body had once lay. 

You find him in the nursery, the shining metal arm beneath Jaime’s butt, the small boy lay on his chest. Skin to skin. His right palm splayed on his son’s back, rocking him back to sleep in the rocking chair you definitely thanked Winnie for, multiple times. 

His eyes were closed, his head leaned back against the chair. A pile of drool on his chest from where Jaime’s mouth was open. You sigh, placing a hand on your belly and leaning against the doorway of the bedroom. It was a relief. 

You admired the two of them for a minute, rubbing your belly and feeling the little movements of the baby still inside you and for a moment, not for the first time since finding out you were pregnant, did you wish your Mother was still alive. 

There was a bit of grief in that moment, knowing how much she would have loved having grandchildren. How she would have doted on them. Maybe if this baby was a girl you could name her after her grandmother. 

Steve showed up a few nights after that, fully geared up in a suit you hadn’t seen. One like the suit he wore in the films, but more muted. Something easier to get by in, and a duffel next to him. 

“I can’t leave her Steve.” A whisper in the hallway. The duffel dropped on the floor. 

“I need your help with this pal.” Steve replied, “You know I hate to ask, but I need you.” You step out into the front hall, your husband’s back blocking out most of Steve. 

“What’s wrong?” Your back hurt like hell, breasts heavy with milk for the feeding you knew Jaime would want soon. Feet swollen in early third trimester. Bucky sighed and turned to you with a smile, 

“Nothing sweetheart, go get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.” Your eyes met Steve’s and his face was serious, brow pulled tight, jaw clenched. 

“Steve?” You step further towards them, “Is it serious?” A curt nod. 

“I wouldn’t ask him to come…” You nod, looking back at your husband. His fists clenched at his sides. 

“You should go.” His face falls, 

“But dahlin, I can’t leave you here alone.” 

“I won’t be alone.” You soothe, “I’ll call your Mother in the morning, I’m sure she’ll be happy to stay with me for a few days.” You didn’t want him to go, not really. But Steve was never gone for more than a week, and you could tell how badly Bucky wanted to go. There was something in him that needed to follow Steve, every time Steve left on a mission Bucky would be anxious and couldn’t focus on anything. The worry. 

“He just rushes into things,” Bucky explained once, “He wasn’t particularly good at making plans.” Which was true, but most of that was left to Peggy. 

“You want to help him,” Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist, “So help him.” A soft, languid kiss. 

“Are you sure?” He searches your eyes for the truth and you meet his lips again in reassurance.

“I’m sure, just, when you’re done, come home.” He nods, leaning his forehead on yours for a moment before looking at Steve. 

“Let me go see Jaime and I’ll be right out.” 

The first time he came back it was frightening, all the bruises. A gash in his side hastily stitched, but healed within a matter of days. It wasn’t easy seeing him go each time, albeit not often did he go, but the reunion of him coming back was heated and passionate. 

Rushed kisses and his hands curled into your hair. The pleasure in having both arms so he could do everything he wanted to, but couldn’t before. Fingers in your mouth pressing down on your tongue while cool metal digits strummed pleasure under your skirt and stuffed into your panties while Jaime napped. 

Both hips held for leverage while he was buried inside you in the only way you could get comfortable, grinding against your pussy to make you cum quickly before the both of you left the bed to start your day. 

He whispers into your neck, moaning as he held you over the washing machine, his hips slapping against yours in a steady pace, “I told you I would take care of you.” A whimper from your lips, “I’ll always take care of you.” Fingers laced in yours on the table top over the laundry, his hand met your chin, turning your mouth to meet his as you came, moaning into his mouth. 

He was almost his old self once he started going back out on missions. The anger of last year faded into dark moments and restless sleep. Some nights he wasn’t able to sleep at all, but the resentment you felt when you’d been awake with the baby was washed down with the fact that he needed every good night he could. 

After the incident in the old house, the bruise on your arm was the only memory for weeks after, he’d never taken his anger out on you again. He’d gone back to boxing, a hobby in his teen years, an outlet for the anger and trauma he’d experienced out in the field. 

Now that he was working with Howard, Steve, and Peggy, he was training a lot more. The muscles in his arms and legs are more defined, his soft belly tighter. 

And he was happy. Truly happy, for the first time in a long time.


	9. 1947

The birth of your daughter came the week after Christmas, five weeks early and nestled into the time between the holiday and the start of the new year. A nine month old Jaime curiously crawled into the bed, hoping to cuddle with his mother but was confused to find another baby in her arms. You cooed at the little girl, holding her up so her brother could see.   
Bucky was sitting behind Jaime, holding him and letting him sit to lay the baby girl between you. 

“That’s your sister Jaime.” A soft whisper, the newborn sleeping in her swaddle. Jaime’s brows scrunched, eyes looking up at you in question before reaching his arms out for you and beginning to cry. The sound of his wails waking his sister and causing her to fuss and cry out. You sigh heavily, picking your boy up and holding him to your chest, watching Bucky pick up his daughter in an attempt to soothe. Jaime’s little foot kicked out at her to push her away. 

It was a big adjustment for him, but he was young enough to adapt fairly quickly. Both you and Bucky had a much more difficult time. Jaime made you a sucker, he had been so easy compared to Claudia. Dia you called her. She was cholicky and needy. She fussed and squirmed, never happy. Her need for attention took a lot of your day, Jaime was unhappy that Bucky was the one cutting up his food and helping to wean him off of your breast. 

He cried and babbled to be breastfed, something that helped you feel so close to him, but now with your daughter it was harder to navigate and he was getting older. 

Bucky went on missions every once in a while, when Steve couldn’t get Dugan or Gabe Jones to back him up. In those times Winnie would come stay and she was more of a help than either of you when it came to the babies. It almost made you feel inadequate as a Mother. 

She was able to soothe both at the same time, “It comes from practice,” She claims, “Don’t sell yourself short, this is the first time you’ve ever done this.” She wasn’t wrong. You tried to focus on that. 

In the springtime, Bucky was away on another mission and Winnie took it upon herself to help you by going to the store. It was the first beautiful day of spring, a light 70, bright sunny and warm. Four-month-old Dia lay on her belly in the sun, wiggling, while 13 month old Jaime waddled around picking grass and bringing it back to you. 

You admired this neighborhood, the neighbors mainly kept to themselves, some were mowing their lawns, others playing with their small children in a similar fashion. It was then that you met someone who would cause you only grief. 

Martha Green. 

She was blonde and pretty. She lived next door with her husband and two young kids, from what you can tell they were almost ready for grade school. When you’d first moved into the neighborhood she shamelessly flirted with Steve at the gate. The poor guy, fresh and naive, needed to be saved by Peggy who put her foot down and told the bubbly blonde to buzz off. Once Bucky got his arm, he started fixing things outside of the house, a loose shutter that rattled and woke up Jaime once or twice, he lay new tiles on the roof, but her favorite was when he mowed the lawn. She would come out, bubbly and sweet and offer him a drink. Sometimes it was lemonade, other times she was bold enough to offer him whiskey. 

“She’s intense.” He’d laugh with you later before growing serious, forking rice into his mouth, “I don’t think her husband treats her very well.” 

You’d never spoken to her. You stayed mostly in the backyard, the fence high enough that they couldn’t see in. It was easier than risk the confrontation of racist neighbors. You were sure that she thought Bucky a bachelor up until you decided to start bringing the kids into the front yard. You wanted the sun. Shoe-less and bare shouldered you soaked it in, Dia in just her cloth diaper and a hat and Jaime much the same. You’d bathe them together later. You leaned back on the blanket and cooed at your babies, thanking Jaime for bringing you more grass and wishing he would play with the toys you’d laid out for him instead. 

“Excuse me?” Her voice was harsh. You turned your eyes up from your wiggling baby to the woman on the other side of your fence, standing in your driveway. Her skin flushed. 

“Yes?” Jaime toddled back over and handed you a baseball Bucky had gotten him, which you quietly thanked him for before setting it down at your side. 

“I just wanted to let you know the police are on their way.” Your mouth drops and you stand to approach the fence. 

“I live here.” You say, her head already shaking. 

“Your kind does not live in this neighborhood.” She spits, “I know the man who lives here.” You shake your head,

“Do you mean my husband?” Her lips parted and her jaw clenched. 

“That’s not possible.” You began to hear sirens, police on their way. You felt a sense of relief as Winnie pulled back into the driveway. The older woman stepped from the car and looked at you in confusion before turning to the woman beside her. 

“Can I help you?” Martha turns to Winnie and sighs in relief.

“This woman here is trespassing,” She says, “I called the police.” Winnie looks from the woman to you in a panic. 

“Y/N take the babies and get in the house.” Her voice stern, she turned a glare back to Martha in front of her. “You’re the one who is trespassing here, who do you think you are?” You could hear the sirens getting closer and quickly picked up Dia and Jaime and brought them inside, shutting the screen door. Jaime started crying, toddling back to the front door, his playtime interrupted. You quickly placed him in his playpen and turned the radio on low, his cries tapering off as he picked up his blankie and rubbed it on his face before placing Dia in the small bassinet you’d brought down into the den. When you made it back to the screen door you could see Winnie arguing with a police officer and pointing to Martha beside her. The police officer looked behind her and saw you, motioning for you to come outside. You slipped on heels you’d left by the door quickly and stepped outside, the officer stepping past the two women in the driveway to meet you at the gate. 

“Is your name Y/N Barnes?” He asked. You look at Winnie, “Don’t look at her, look at me.” His voice was gruff and annoyed. 

“Yes, it is.” He nods, looking at the house behind you. 

“And you live here with your husband, James Barnes?” People knew who James Barnes was, just like they knew who Steve Rogers was. The Howling Commandos were famous, war heroes. 

“Yes, I do.” He nods again, jaw clenching. 

“Marrying someone like you isn’t technically illegal,” He spits some dip on the ground, the muck on the side of the white fence Bucky just repainted, “The two of you better keep that shit and those children to yourself. Do you understand me?” You felt your cheeks heat up, the anger you had to swallow. 

“Yes, I understand.” His eyes roam your bare shoulders, focus on your chest for a moment, before tracing down your body, making your stomach churn. 

“I don’t want to have to come out here again.” Another spit against the fence and he turned around to walk away. “Have a good day ladies.” You wouldn’t let that bitch see you cry. A glare in Martha’s direction. Her smug face, heels clicking as she stomped her way back into her house. Winnie snatched the groceries from the trunk, slamming it heavily, you opened the gate to help her in before grabbing a bag. 

“The nerve.” She rants, “Has nothing better to do than stick her prissy little nose in our business, she’s the one who was trespassing. The nerve.” You check on Jaime and Dia, both having fallen asleep in the mid afternoon. Tired from the sun and playing which you were thankful for. “Don’t get upset dove.” She placed the groceries on the kitchen table and waited until you did as well to pull you against her tightly. “She’s a bitch.” A laugh through the tears that started to fall. 

“She really is.” 

Bucky, fresh home from his mission, asked about the gate. The dip spit hadn’t come off even though you’d tried to scrub it. You didn’t know where he’d left the extra paint either. “It’s fine,” You said, “We are fine.” But he was angry, clearly. “Don’t.” He wanted to go talk to them. Her and her husband. “We are fine.” 

He snuggled up with his babies, reading, but you knew the conversation wasn’t over. The babies were asleep when he joined you in bed, crawling over your body and placing the book you were reading on the nightstand before placing a soft kiss on your lips.

“If my Ma hadn’t shown up...” His eyes wide and fearful.

“But she did,” You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp at the nape of his neck. “Everything is fine.” He presses a kiss to your lips before sighing and laying down on you. His head in your lap. “There’s more sun in the front yard… I just wanted to enjoy the sun.” 

“It’s not your fault mi amor… I worry about you,” He admits, “Every time I leave.” You brush your fingers through his hair while he continues, “I knew it would only be a matter of time until someone had some shit to say.” You’d been surprised that it took as long as it did, honestly. “I’ll repaint the gate tomorrow,” A mumble as he slipped into unconsciousness, “I’ll call Steve, see if he can help me with some of the trees in the backyard, give you a little more sun.” 

The next day Steve and Bucky were tearing down branches and piling up firewood on the side of the house. It only took two trees coming down before the backyard was flooded with sunlight. Dia lay on a picnic blanket you lay out in the yard, Jaime toddled around bringing small branches to his father and Uncle Steve. 

Peggy sat beside you, a large shiny rock on her finger. One she kept glancing at, and smiling softly. Steve proposed just yesterday when he’d gotten back in. “Maybe the fall.” She says, “Or winter, we’d have to get married in London for my family, but maybe we’ll do a ceremony here in the states as well? Not too much of a fuss though.” 

Dia rolled onto her back, kicking her pudgy legs out and into the air, gumming her fist. Peggy cooed over her, the little girl who, when she noticed her father sitting a few feet away began to fake cry for his attention. Jaime and Dia missed him when he was away, but Bucky got exactly what he wanted in her, she was infatuated with him and if he was in the room and not holding her she would fuss until he did. 

A grin stretched his lips as he cooed at her and picked her up from the ground, her little fingers instantly wrapping around the dog tags on his neck and yanking. Jaime toddled over to you and fell into your lap, laying his head on your chest and sticking his thumb into his mouth.

Peggy continues, “There’s a house in the neighborhood we’re thinking about buying actually.” A grin on her face, “Steve has been looking into getting it, we’d only be a few doors down.”

“I’m sure Bucky would love that.” You looked back at the men behind you, reclining on the deck, Dia babbling in her father’s lap and playing with the jingly tags before reaching over to Steve and doing the same. The men in a deep conversation about something you’re sure had to do with whatever mission had recently taken him away from you. 

Bucky met your eyes and smiled, sticking his tongue out at you while beginning to bounce Dia on his knee. Jaime had fallen asleep on your chest, thumb idle in his mouth as you marveled at your little family. 

You honestly thought that you wouldn’t spend a third year in a row pregnant, but Bucky seemed to be extremely potent. You just hadn’t told him, not yet. Soon. 

You started showing mid-summer. After two kids with the third on the way you felt like a beached whale in your swimsuit on the beach. It was pretty, bought for you by Becca with the money she’d been making helping you distribute the dresses. Your little messenger who got you the business in the first place. The white one piece with pink polka dots did nothing to hide your growing belly and the cellulite on your thighs. 

Bucky didn’t seem to mind though. The sex was still constant and whenever the two of you found the time, which you’re sure would fully be gone when baby number three was born. “I’m not going to be pregnant next year.” You tell him. “I need a break.” He kisses the skin of your neck, humming. 

“Whatever you want dahlin.” Bucky loved being a father, and you were starting to suspect that he loved when you were pregnant as well. He was far more handsy when you were pregnant. Especially today. 

His parents rented a beach house, the family, including Steve and Peggy, the girls, Ginny and Daniel, Ruth and her fiance Matthew, Suzy and Becca. It was a full house, but so far a relaxing and enjoyable vacation for all. 

Jaime and Dia quickly learned that sand was not edible. Laughter as you rinsed their mouths out with water. 

“You ready?” Bucky asked, picking up Dia and holding his hand out for Jaime. “C’mon bud.” He walked the kids down to the water, sitting Dia in the sand close enough where the waves would lap at her legs before squatting down and picking up wet sand to show Jaime. You watched from your spot, reclining further back. George walked out to meet Bucky, his belly rounder, hair more grey. 

You watched, digging your toes in the sand while Bucky dipped Dia into the water, her giggles reaching your ears. Jaime held up wet sand to his grandfather, “Wet,” he giggled before letting it drop out of his fingers. Becca lay next to you, tanning in the sun. While Suzy sat under the umbrella reading next to Winnie who found herself knitting new booties for a new baby. 

George was talking to Bucky, little Dia handed off and she squirmed as George pressed kisses to her face. 

“He’s a good Dad.” Becca sat up on her elbows, looking at her older brother play with Jaime in the water, dunking his lower body into the crashing waves. “Which is so weird, like my brother is a good Dad.” You grin at her, rubbing your belly in contentment, 

“He really is.” 

Bucky’s lips tasted of salt. Dia and Jaime down for a nap they had wailed themselves into. Too much sun left them tired and cranky. 

Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist, joining you in admiring the two of them, curled up next to one another. 

“Jaime’s hair is getting long.” You say, brushing the curls off his face, his thumb stuck in his mouth, just a breath away from his sister doing the same. 

“It’s almost time for his first hair cut I think.” James slowly rocked the both of you back and forth, side to side, you close your eyes and lean your head back against his shoulder. “In a couple months I’m gonna help Steve and Dugan with something big.” His hands splay wide over your tummy, “I’ll be gone for a little while.” Your brow furrows, turning to him he looks apologetic. 

“How long is a little while?” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and sighs before replying. 

“Three weeks.” That’s a long time. That’s longer than he’d ever been gone since coming home from the war. You step back from him, placing your hands on your lower back. 

“No,” You shake your head, “That’s too long.” He reaches for you and you step out of his grasp, exiting the room as to not wake the children. 

“Sweetheart,” He follows you into the kitchen where you began to pour yourself iced tea Winnie had made earlier in the day. “Listen, I know it’s a long time…” He steps into your line of sight and corners you against the counter. You refuse to meet his eyes, trying to move your way around him but he locks you in. His fingers softly lifting your chin to look at him. “Just this once, all of these small missions have been leading up to this, and my Ma or Becca will stay with you the whole time.” 

“It’s going to be dangerous.” A statement, not a question. He sighs, hands resting on your belly while he speaks, 

“I’ll always come home to you amor de mi vida,” He leans down and meets your lips, “Always.” 

Becca stayed with you while he was gone. The entirety of Thanksgiving and the week before, the week after. Somewhere in Europe, but he couldn’t tell you where. They’d found an extra Hydra cell, you knew that. It didn’t do anything to soothe the fear you had that maybe this time he wouldn’t survive the fall. Maybe this time someone would kill him in the field. 

The missions before were dangerous, sure. But he came home mostly unscathed from those. Like another day at work. A work trip over the weekend, two or three days and then he was back until it was time for him to go again. 

The babies missed him, which was something you were sure to complain to him about once he got back. 

He came home in one piece, barely. His eye was black and swollen, the gash on his side, while stitched and bandaged, left him sore and bed ridden for a week after he returned. In the middle of winter, firewood from the summer being burned in the fireplace, he moaned in pain while you cleaned his wounds and changed his bandages. 

“That’s what you get for leaving me.” You’d been crying since he’d gotten back. Horrified at the state he was in. He laughs, holding his stitched side. 

“Te amo.” A languid kiss he had no means to truly act on before laying the frozen steak you’d wrapped in cloth back onto his eye. 

“You’re never leaving me like that again.” You tell him, leaning your head on his side. He smiles down at you and runs his fingers through your curls. 

“Never.”


	10. 1948

You told Bucky you were never having sex with him again. 

Jaime was the eldest of three, Dia becoming a middle child, and those newborn cries you weren’t given the time to miss sounded from your bedroom at night every two hours like clockwork. 

Grant was a handful. But he was so cute you forgave him for it. Jaime looked like his father with your coloring, Dia was an exact replica of you, but Grant, he had his father’s eyes. They just about knocked the wind out of you when they didn’t change from that milky newborn blue to brown. His sweet fat little cheeks and blue eyes. 

Dia waddled her way over to you, holding onto the side of the couch and bouncing while looking at her father, babbling for his attention. Bucky peaks at her over his newspaper, the radio keeping Jaime preoccupied while he plays with a toy car Santa brought him for Christmas, making motorized sounds as he pushes it across the carpet. 

Dia lets out a little screech. Bucky laughs and drops his paper, her little arms reaching out for him. He picks her up and settles her on his lap. Another screeching sound as she bounced, Bucky’s mouth blowing raspberries and tickling her. Grant was milk drunk and falling asleep on your breast. 

“We need a vacation I think.” Bucky laughed, Dia pulling roughly on his hair that desperately needed to be cut. You smile softly, looking down at your newborn. 

“Just you and me?” Dia screeches again, accidentally jumping on Bucky’s lap, feet first into his groin. He groans, lifting her off his lap, 

“Just you and me.” 

Martha Green was still talking to your husband. He was short with her, mostly ignoring while he mowed the lawn. You stood in the front window of the house, watching her. Leaning on the fence, pushing her breasts out, smiling. She was wearing a frilly pink dress and for a moment you envied how she had two kids and kept her figure, there was no secret that yours had filled out. Almost every dress you owned had been adjusted. 

But Bucky had seemed just as insatiable as ever. He still kissed you a hundred times a day, he still pressed himself against your back at the sink, he’d grope your ass or breast in passing. A playful slap here or there. But he was respecting the fact that you weren’t comfortable enough to have sex again, not yet. 

But maybe you were wrong for that. 

Grant was three months old now and while the weight from Jaime didn’t stick to your tummy or hips, Dia and Grant certainly did. Bucky respected the fact that you weren’t ready, and not out of fear that you’d get pregnant again, which he was happy to buy rubbers for, but the change in your body was hard to deal with. 

You loved your children more than life itself, and you heard the ‘girls steal your beauty’ more than once after Dia was born. That didn’t help. 

Bucky had packed on muscle. And a lot of it. Between boxing and training with Steve. Completing missions, his arm had been upgraded to just about match his flesh arm, and he was sporting a six pack when he flexed. But luckily enough he seemed annoyed with her. Bucky could hold a grudge and the woman had called the police on you after all. 

He glared at her, pulled the mower, and resumed cutting the grass. Grant wailed from behind you and you gave her one last look, her face clear with disappointment and annoyance before she stomped back into her house. 

Later that night, after the kids were sleeping soundly, you knew Bucky wanted to have sex. He had a tell. “I just like looking at you.” He always says when you’d playfully tell him to stop, but his eyes stay on you as you wash your face and set your hair at the vanity. You could see how hard he was in the mirror. The gentle hands that began to massage your shoulders. 

But the doubt and the insecurity from earlier was still nestled in your chest. You shrug his hands from your shoulders and step from the vanity, walking to your side of the bed and removing your robe before slipping under the covers. Bucky was looking at you from his spot still next to the vanity, debating,

“What’s wrong?” He asked. You’d known each other for nine years now, if he couldn’t tell something was wrong there would be a bigger problem in the marriage other than insecurity about extra weight. He squat next to your side of the bed, brushing his fingers across your cheek, cupping your face. 

“Nothing.” You shake your head, pressing a kiss into his palm. “It’s nothing.” Three months was the longest the two of you had gone without sex since he’d gotten home from the war. 

“It’s not nothing, talk to me.” You roll onto your back, rubbing your eyes, before looking back at him. Concern clear on his face. 

“I uh…” You felt anxious, sitting up in bed he rested his chin on your knees, looking up at you. “Do you…” His hands found yours, thumbs brushing over the back of your hands. “I just…” You could feel yourself getting emotional, wanting to swallow it down. 

“Dahlin, talk to me.” His voice was full of concern. 

“Should I lose weight?” You ask him. “Do you think I’m…” His brow furrowed and he leaned back on his haunches. 

“Is that what this is all about?” He asked. You let out a heavy sigh and nodded. “Sweetheart, I don’t care about any of that.” His hands left yours and held your hips. “You’ve given me three children,” Hands bunching your night dress, “You’re so beautiful.” A kiss to your knee. “If losing the baby weight is something that would make you happier, I’ll support you.” Kiss to your other knee, “But I don’t mind either way.” His hands met your hips under your night dress and pulled you closer to him, his lips trailing up your thigh. “I’ve loved you since the minute I first saw you.” Hot words against your thigh as his fingers twisted into your panties, tugging them down your hips, “Nothing is going to change that.” 

Your back met the mattress as he placed your thighs on his shoulders, fingers intertwined with yours as his tongue met your clit. Back arching and soft moans, his hands leaving yours to grip your thighs and fondle your ass as his tongue pulled moans from your lips and made your hips roll against his face. You were quick to cum, his eyes hooded and mouth tangy with your release as he kissed you. The quiet shift of his boxers being dropped and he paused over you long enough to roll a rubber down his shaft. 

Whispered love and affirmation as you joined for the first time in three months, hands gripping sheets and mouth muffled moans to keep from waking the kids. 

Bucky made it a point to tell you that you’re beautiful daily after that. And he meant it, truly. 

Bucky had gotten home midday in Spring, another mission done, tired to the bone. But from the kitchen sink he could see clear into the backyard. Jaime was in just his shorts, running around the backyard, enjoying the playset Steve had helped him build a few weeks before. Dia in her diaper following him, your sweet voice calling out to them and ‘ralentizar’ and ‘ven aquí’, Dia coming back to play with the blocks you laid out on the blanket that 6 month old Grant was currently banging together. 

His eyes moved to you, a slip of a dress on, shoulders bare, laying back in a day of heat that was causing the flowers you’d planted to bloom. He admired you from the window. Your skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, hair in loose curls down your back the way he remembered seeing for the first time in that club so many years ago. A relaxed loose, carefree way he always wanted for you. 

He sighed in contentment, leaning over the sink to stare out the window. Watching you lean back on your forearms, Grant’s one tooth smile grinning up at you, holding out his blocks and banging them together while he laughed. 

Your dress business is being taken care of by five employees of your own now. You’d talked to him about maybe getting a building in the city, maybe with his backing you’d be able to open a small store. Once the summer was over, the two of you decided, after the vacation he’d been planning, then you’d work on opening a store in the city. 

“I’ve never been away from them.” There was a little panic as Winnie took Grant from you. Bucky rubbed your arms, Jaime’s hands wrapped around your legs. He was already so fussy that day. Like he knew you both were leaving, he’d thrown three tantrums which caused Dia to be uncontrollably fussy, Grant was the only one who seemed content to go with whatever was going on. 

“They’re going to be fine.” Bucky soothed. George was bribing Jamie with a toy, trying to pry him from your arms, but the two-year-old was not having it. His face red and wailing, arms wrapped around your neck as you hugged him goodbye. “It’s just a week sweetheart.” Your heart broke as you walked down the steps of the Barnes’ brownstone and to the car. Winnie having Grant wave goodbye and cooing to Dia and Jaime that the two of you will be back and that they’re going to have so much fun. 

Howard had a beach house in the Hamptons, quiet and secluded. Far away from anyone able to protest and argue. A beautiful house with large bay windows and natural light. Bucky was unpacking the groceries, your shared suitcase by the front door still, while you looked out at the crashing waves. This was your home for the next week. And while you’d sit on the phone with Winnie each night, asking her to hold your babies up to the phone, you couldn’t help but be relieved for finally having some kind of break. 

The sun was going down, both of you warm with it, sleepily laying in the sun listening to the waves crash. No kids to care for, no responsibility, just the two of you. You’d eaten cold cut sandwiches and had started drinking at lunchtime, followed by an indecent amount of kissing and fondling on the blanket in the sand. 

He blocked out your sun, leaning over your frame, mouth consuming and hot, malty from the taste of liquor. 

“I’ve missed this.” He said, your face on his chest, fingers dancing down your back. “Just being the two of us.” You hummed, sleepy and a little drunk. 

“Me too.” His hat is halfway propped onto his face, he continues, 

“Once the kids grow up and move out,” He says, “Maybe we could retire up here.” You hum, knowing that it probably won’t be possible, not unless they abolish segregation, but who knows. Maybe one day, maybe when you retire forty years from now things will be different. 

Maybe. 

The bath is big enough for the both of you and once the sand is rinsed from your bodies you find yourself there, sinking into the warm water, your back to his chest. Bucky tried his best to make it romantic, all the candles, the oils in the bath. A bath that wasn’t littered with toys and having the ability to bathe longer than five minutes was a definite advantage. 

The days that followed were much like the first, a steady routine you both created in the absence of the normal routine you had at home. Automatically formed out of habit. 

The sex was passionate and much needed. The ability to love each other openly without worry of a baby crying or interrupting in any way. Bucky’s stamina was unparalleled. You’d even risked it out on the sand, swimsuit bottoms pulled to the side, legs over his shoulders, moaning against the sound of the waves beating on the shore. 

You’d lost count of the times you called the Lord’s name in vain. Dumb and babbling with it. Bucky’s back was littered with deep red marks that weren’t given time to disappear. A revitalization for your marriage, with a realization that you’d been together for eight years. Married for six. 

You celebrate your anniversary in the Hamptons, definitely not on your anniversary, and eat cake naked on the kitchen floor. 

“Okay,” You hum, “You look beautiful.” Peggy gave a watery smile in the mirror, the satin and lace wedding gown draped over her body accenting every curve she had. You smiled at her, your dark blue bridesmaid dress a stark contrast. 

Turning she grasps your hands and holds them between the two of you, her nails red lacquered and pale. 

“Thank you for being here.” She lets out a heavy sigh from nerves, “I don’t have many girlfriends.” You shake your head, 

“You’re my friend,” A grin, “Of course I’m here.” 

A small ceremony, not much fuss, that’s what Peggy wanted but certainly not what she settled on. It was a little larger, with a lot more flowers, and a bigger audience than she expected. She was marrying Captain America after all. They’d gotten requests from reporters, people wanting to take pictures as the couple took their vows, but they were told a hasty ‘no’ and now sat outside the church waiting to snap a picture of the newlyweds as they left. 

You cried. Standing across from Bucky as he stood behind Steve. You tried not to, but you couldn’t help it. Not just for the happiness of the marriage, but the love you could feel from your friends. Bucky met your eye and smiled, eyes watering as well, clapping with everyone else as Peggy and Steve shared their first kiss as husband and wife. 

Bucky met you behind them while they walked down the aisle, pulling you tightly into his side. “Do you regret that ours wasn’t like this?” You met his eyes and they were watery, he seemed upset. You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his lips, the congregation more focused on Captain America and his bride. 

The love you felt for him chokes you and you begin to cry, “Not at all.”


	11. 1949

Sunset Park was ever growing with Hispanic population, in the years since you and your Mother came to New York the population had grown and people, while still not allowing certain people to mix, there was a little less of a stigma of someone brown walking down the street. Surprisingly enough the property you’d found was right across the street from the bodega where Bucky had first dragged you in trying to buy bread and the man refused you. It straddled the line of the Hispanic and white population in Brooklyn. 

It was the perfect spot. 

The upstairs level would be for sewing and crafting, the downstairs would house the shop and sales. Bucky and George painted the upstairs and downstairs, fit new light fixtures, and fixed the shoddy wiring that hadn’t been worked on, you were convinced, since electric light had been invented. 

“What do you think?” He asked, coveralls splattered with paint and sweat on his brow. You grin up at him, 

“I love it.” 

The women you’d been selling dresses to over the past few years now had somewhere to shop and you could sell more products standardly while offering tailoring services. A big, ‘EVERYONE WELCOME’ sign in the front window. Which means you had to hire more people. You stuck to hiring women, the women who wanted to work in your community. 

You figured things were going pretty well, until the first time you were vandalized. Broken glass and a clear message of not being welcome a month into opening. You couldn’t help but figure it might have something to do with the man across the street who seemed to remember your faces. 

He stood there now, arms crossed. Lips pressed so tight they almost disappeared from his face. You huff, trying not try cry as the girls help you sweep up the glass. You called Bucky, knowing he was home with the kids, from the back office. 

“The front window is shattered.” You couldn’t help but cry when you heard his voice. 

“Okay,” He sighed, you could hear Grant fussing in the background, “Let me call my Pa and I’ll see what we can do.” The police didn’t care, but George was the one who originally talked to the inspectors and bank having already started his own business before. 

He had someone out in an hour to fix the window and to install new, easier to pull down, grate for them. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked, he’d finally got the kids to sleep. The excitement of Mama coming home and a quick dinner had been followed by a carefully orchestrated bath and bedtime routine. Now it was just the two of you, and the bottle of wine you’d opened. 

“We are very lucky,” You start, “In New York they haven’t banned us being together, they segregate, sure, but we have a good amount of people who believe in integration. We don’t have a lot of problems with prejudice so sometimes I forget.” His hand met the back of your neck, massaging. “It’s just a little bit of a wake-up call.” 

He shrugs, “I thought that now Jackie Robinson was playing for the Dodgers that people would be a little more accepting.” You glare at him and he laughs. “If we are being honest here…” Bucky sighs, taking a sip from his glass, “I worry about our kids.” He leans further into the couch, “I worry all the time about the day we have to send Jaime to school, I worry about them playing outside. I worry about things happening to you and the kids when I’m not here.” 

People respected Bucky Barnes. He was a war hero, right hand man to Captain America himself. You lost count of the amount of times you’d take the kids for a walk and be stopped. Women wanting his autograph and men wanting to thank him for his service to the country. There was a level of protection there. It was possible that it was keeping you and your children safe. Not out of the realm of thought. Especially when you were actually with him out. 

Without him was tight smiles and folks crossing the street to avoid you, like you were some kind of threat to them. 

You lay your legs on his lap, wordlessly asking him to rub your aching feet. You’d worked the floor all day, first cleaning up glass and then helping with customers and you did four fittings in the afternoon. He drains his glass and begins to rub your stocking clad feet. 

“How was the shop today besides the window?” Thumbs digging into the sole of your foot you moan, letting your head roll back against the armrest of the couch. 

“Good, we sold ten dresses.” He switched to a different foot, “I think Amara and Rosalyn are a little more than friends.” He pauses, looking at you. 

“Like?” You nod. 

“Huh.” He shrugs, “That makes a lot more sense.” The two women, your first employees, told you they moved in together to save money and were tired of living in the boarding house. With their savings they bought a cute little property not far from the store. They also adopted a few animals. 

“What did you think?” He shakes his head, 

“I just thought they were strange.” They always seemed so fidgety, like they were doing something suspicious when you weren’t in the room, but it would make sense of having the fear of getting caught. An interracial marriage some could be okay with, but a same-sex marriage? That was a whole different story. 

His fingers danced their way up your skirt, to your hose, removing the stay ups slowly, keeping eye contact, while massaging your foot with his other hand his fingers slipped under the hose and rolled the first one down your leg. Then the other. 

“I missed you today.” He whispered, kissing your ankle. “We all missed you today.” He tapped your leg, tugging gently on your thigh to get you to sit up, straddling his lap. His erection was already straining against his trousers. You ground yourself against him, meeting his lips. His hands held your hips, moving you against him enough to tease. “It’s so sexy,” He whispers, going for the button on his slacks, you lift up, shimmying your panties off and tossing them to the side. “You’re going off to work,” A breathy kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, tilting his head back as you press kisses down his jaw and onto his neck. “You’re so talented dahlin.” He groaned as you sunk down onto him, rocking your hips with his hands. “So fucking talented.” 

“Te quiero mucho.” Kisses wet and sloppy as you muffle your moans against his lips. His hand held the back of your neck, body slipping down to hover his hips off the couch, bringing your body close to his in order to thrust upward into you. Mouth pressed tightly to keep quiet while you came, fingers dipping between your thighs to strum your clit, riding out the pleasure while Bucky’s hips stuttered with release. 

“I love you too sweetheart.” Erection staying stiff inside you. He breathes and lets you collapse on top of him before sighing, “We forgot to use a rubber.” 

And just like that, pregnant again. 

You pretended to be hateful. “This is all your fault.” But Bucky just laughed. “You planned this.” Grant crawled over his shoulder, going to tumble down his back, letting Bucky catch him before he falls, laughing and doing it again. Dia and Jaime were playing with the new dollhouse she’d received for her birthday. A present that ‘Santa’ brought her, but was really bought from Macy’s and you didn’t even want to ask Winnie how much it cost. 

This pregnancy was a little rougher than the last three. You felt sick constantly and the ginger mints only did so much, aside from the fact that you started showing almost immediately. Your feet were swollen from working at the store and a rushed doctor visit was needed after you’d started spotting. 

“Bed rest.” Was what the doctor said, you’d huffed indignantly. The last three pregnancies you’d lived normally up until the day they were born and the doctor had the nerve to tell you that it was because you were older now. You weren’t even thirty yet. 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried to calm you down after you cursed the Doctor, “He’s an asshole, but if he’s recommending bed rest, you should probably rest.” So the keys to the shop were handed over to Amara and Rosalyn. 

“I hate this.” You grumbled, the kids were a mess today, and you felt very stressed. You couldn’t do anything right for Jaime, Dia seemed to want nothing to do with you, and Grant was throwing a tantrum over a soft breeze. “When are you coming home?” You could hear him pause on the other end, 

“About an hour left and I should be on my way.” The longest hour of your life. 

The sickness, the bleeding, the swollen feet. You’d been blessed with twins by the way your belly was measuring. “You did this.” And Bucky laughed. 

You sat in Peggy’s kitchen, snacking on a cheese plate she layed out for the two of you, grumbling about it. 

“He doesn’t know what it’s like.” Peggy, radiant as ever, nods in understanding, “In the seven years of our marriage I’ve been pregnant for four of them. The other three he was gone.” Every year you’d been together resulting in pregnancy. Jaime and Dia within months of each other. Grant a little while after that, and then a break in between him and now. “I love my kids,” You defend, “But you’ll understand when you have them.” You sigh, rubbing your belly, “It’s difficult.”

“I’m not sure Steve and I are ready quite yet.” She laughs, “Our work is dangerous,” She wasn’t joking. You knew their apprehensions, you felt them every time Bucky walked out the door. You weren’t sure if he was coming home or not, every time. “But I’m living vicariously through you in the meantime.” The playpen was set up in the living room, the three kids in view of you, playing quite loudly to the noise of the radio. The boys were out back, fixing loose shingles on the roof. 

“You can take one if you want,” You joke, arching your back trying to relieve some of the pain. Bucky stepped inside behind Steve, grabbing a drink from the fridge he lays a sweaty kiss on your cheek before going over to the chorus of Papa from their sitting room. Dia was the one who wanted his attention the most, her little feet climbing up on the gate and reaching her arms out to him while Grant and Jaime quickly lost interest as the noise from the radio changed. Bucky picked her up and brought her over to where you were sitting, handing her a piece of cheese to nibble on. 

“You trying to sell our kids?” He asked.

“I’m trying to give them away for free.” Another kiss to your head and a hand on your belly. 

“Baby.” Dia said. Pointing to your stomach. 

“That’s right mija,” You smiled, “You want to feel the baby?” She nods, chewing on a finger. Bucky sits her on your lap, your sweet girl’s hair was finally growing, the soft brown curls done back with a bow, she put her hands on your tummy.

“Big belly.” She whispers, tapping on your stomach. 

“There’s two babies in there mija.” She scrunches her nose, tapping on your belly again before reaching beside you for some more cheese. Bucky takes down the gate for the playpen, the other kids coming around to snack on cheese. Jaime whining to come up into your lap as well, Grant behind him. Peggy picks up Grant, settling him in her lap. Bucky taking Dia for you to let Jaime snuggle up into your lap. His body curled around your tummy, thumb in his mouth. 

“Who would have ever thought.” Steve mused, “I thought you were crazy for chasing her the way you did.” Bucky chasing you, ten years ago now. So young and naive. 

“I thank God every day that I did.” He grins at you and you could almost see the way he looked when he was seventeen, when he ran into you on the street and dragged you into a shop you knew you wouldn’t be allowed in. 

You smile back, “Me too.” When Bucky leans in for a kiss Jaime groans and pushes him away, pulling you to him and making you give him a kiss on his forehead instead. 

“Mama.” He whines, “I’m hungry.” You give Bucky a look.

“Alright mijo, let’s get you something to eat.” 

Something was wrong next door. The only reason you knew that was because the house was quiet today. Bucky had taken the kids to his parent’s house so you could nap, so you heard the shouting clear as day. You slipped out of bed, and walked to the bedroom window, the window facing the side of Martha Green’s house. The shouting was loud, almost frightening. Your hand fumbled with the bedside phone, dialing quickly. 

“James,” You rest a hand on your belly, still looking out at the house, but their blinds were shut, “Something is happening next door, I think he’s hurting her.” There was a blood curdling scream you were sure he could hear, 

“Call Steve,” He said, “I’m on my way.” 

Steve didn’t answer, you placed the phone in the cradle and heard another scream. Waddling down the stairs, you knew it would take Bucky thirty minutes to get home. Another call to Steve, another unanswered call. 

You could hear glass break. And you called the police. But how far out were they? You could hear her screaming and crying. There was a gun by the front door that felt heavy in your hands, shaking and nerves you walked outside, to her house and up the stairs. You knocked on the front door, hard. 

There was a pause in noise, the gun heavy in your hand, hidden in the pocket of your house dress. The front door ripped open. You’d seen Martha’s husband a number of times and you believed Bucky when he said he didn’t think that he treated her very well. There was a wild look in his eyes and behind the small crack he opened you could see the shattered remains of what must have been their china cabinet. 

You swallow nervously, but quickly ask, “Is Martha here? I uh… I came to return this.” In a quick moment of clarity you’d grabbed the glass dish you’d left by the front door that you’d asked Bucky to take back to Winnie, you thanked God he was forgetful in that moment. His jaw was tight and he looked down at the casserole dish in your hand. 

His grip was rough on the dish, yanking it from your hand, “I’ll be sure to give it to her.” You see movement in the background, Martha. The two children hiccuping in tears as she ushered them in the closet under the stairs. You could see the bruises blooming on her face. “Is there anything else you need?” 

“I would just like to talk to her.” You found some firmness. 

“I’m sure she would not like to talk to you.” And you knew why. A spit at your feet. Your jaw clenched, your ears listened for sirens but you couldn’t hear any. It felt like it had been twenty minutes but you knew it had only been maybe five. 

“Martha!” You called behind him. His hand quickly shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking you into the house. 

“You nosy fucking bitch.” Your back met the hallway wall, fingers fumbling for your gun. You quickly pulled it and aimed it at his chest. He looked startled and backed away. 

“Martha.” You could see her out of the corner of your eyes, “Grab the kids and go to my house.” She was frozen in the doorway, the anger from her husband clear on his face. “Go!”

You were shaking, which was a mistake, he rushed you. You fired the gun but it missed, the bullet embedding itself in the wall above his shoulder. He quickly grabbed your arm and brought a fist down on your face. You fired the gun again, clipping him on his arm. Screaming as you fell, hands coming to protect your belly as you fell. The gun spun out from your grip. 

Martha’s husband, the big hulking man he is, stepped over you and grabbed the gun, pointing it in your face. You gasp, coming back onto your knees, eyes springing with tears. 

“You stupid fucking bitch.” He spits, pulling the hammer back. You’ve made a mistake. Your heart in your throat you grab your belly. 

“You’re a fucking coward.” It springs from your throat before you can help it. His upper lip curling, his finger tenses on the trigger. But before he could pull it you see a flash of metal, Bucky’s hand going to grab his wrist with the gun and in one instant, disarms him and the gun, flinging the piece of metal to the side he wraps his arm around Martha’s husband’s neck, bringing him to the ground. 

When he arrived home he found a bruised and beaten Martha sitting in his den, her two sobbing kids beside her. When she told him where you were, his heart dropped. He felt like he was going to be sick. He snuck through the back door and came into the hallway through their den. Stopping the man about to take his wife away from him. 

“What were you thinking?” He would yell later. Crying. Both of you. “I told you to call Steve.”

“I did.” You were blubbery, “He didn’t answer.” Bucky sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face before turning back to you and sighing heavily.

“Come here baby,” A tight hug to his chest, “I’m sorry. You were so brave, I’m sorry.” Hands rubbing up and down your back as you cried. “Please, never do that again.” You’d talked to the police, Bucky backing your story and telling them what he’d done. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

The next day Martha showed up on your doorstep, an apology pie in hand. “I just wanted to say thank you,” She was looking at her shoes. You stepped aside, inviting her in. Settled down at your kitchen table with a cup of coffee she continues, “I honestly thought he was going to kill me yesterday.” A rough swallow, “He almost killed you.” Her blue eyes meeting yours for the first time. “I’m sorry I was so jealous of seeing how your husband treated you.” Her lips swollen with bitten worry, “And I used race as an excuse to treat you poorly and for that I apologize.” Her hands shaking, you reach over to comfort her. 

“I forgive you,” a mutual cry between new friends. “Listen,” You scribble down your number on the pad by the phone. “If you need help you can always call, James’ work…”

“I know what he does.” She thumbs the paper. “He’s a good man.” You smile softly, 

“Yeah, he is.” You muse at the thought,

Ten long years have led to this. Five children and an ever passionate love between the two of you that, at first, you thought was a simple infatuation that would pass with time. But he loved you, he married you. He helped you create five beautiful children and you couldn’t help but love him endlessly for that. 

He’s shown you how intensely he loves. Every single day. And doesn’t relent, even when things had gotten a little hard. You admire him for that, and know that he was true in every sense of the word. 

His love was all consuming and with every kiss he lay on your lips the relationship between you grew more solid. 

He truly was the love of your life. 

And you were his.


End file.
